by Rae Carson
“Is that another rhetorical question?” I ask. Meekly, I hope.
She glares. “It’s a story, and it’s a story I think you should attend to.”
“What happened?”
“The tree dropped on one side of the road, and he dropped on the other.” She imitates by flopping her hands to either side. “The strain was so great that his heart burst, and he died right there on the spot.”
I swallow. My throat feels drier than the Humboldt Sink we crossed last summer, and my head pounds fiercely. “Could I get that drink of water, Olive?”
Olive leaps for the “pitcher,” but Becky doesn’t slow down. “So what do you think would happen if a little slip of a girl like you tried to move a safe full of hundreds of pounds of gold all by yourself?”
I am most certainly not a little slip of anything, but she’s on a roll, and I can tell she’s genuinely worried about me. Olive hands me a cup of water. I drink greedily.
“I had to do something,” I say. “I didn’t know what would happen.”
“Well, now you do,” she scolds. “And I don’t want you doing anything foolish like that again.”
“I’m pretty sure she’ll find something else foolish to do,” Jefferson mumbles under his breath.
Jefferson and I exchange a knowing look. I have way bigger plans for my gold sense than simply moving one little safe.
But Becky doesn’t know that part, and it’s best we keep it that way. Because if everything goes as intended, Becky will be close in Helena Russell’s company at least once before our work is done here.
We are saved by a slight tap at the door. Melancthon stands there with a tray containing a tureen of chicken soup, along with a bowl, spoon, and napkin. The soup smells like sunshine to me, and if my mouth wasn’t so dry, I’m sure it’d water.
“There’s lunch in the galley for them that want it,” he says. “I brought this for Lee, so she wouldn’t have to get up.”
“I can make it to the galley,” I protest.
“You most certainly will do nothing of the sort,” Becky says. “Come, children, it’s time for lunch.”
Olive takes Andy by the hand and leads him away. She pauses at the door to look sternly over her shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you soon, Lee.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Becky follows her children from the room, and Melancthon sets the tray down on an empty cot. Beside the soup are bread and butter and a variety of cold meats. “For Mr. Kingfisher,” he says. “If he’s hungry, too. Holler if either of you need something more. Can I do anything else for you?”
I glance over at the wall. “Well, there is one thing.”
“Just name it,” he says.
“Is there any chance I could have a window in my room?”
His mouth drops open and he pauses. Then he tosses up his hands. “What’s another hole? You’re the captain of this vessel now, more or less. Windows for everyone, I suppose.”
“I think the fresh air would be good, and I’d love to have some daylight in here.”
He stops at the doorway on his way out. “I don’t know precisely the nature of your . . . accident. But I’m glad to see you up and well.”
“Thank you. And Melancthon?”
“Yes?”
“Have you made up your mind yet about the Argos?”
“I haven’t.”
“Is the captain a close friend of yours?”
“He’s not the kind of man you can be close friends with. If you help him with something he needs, he’ll help you with yours. A matter of expediency.”
“I see.”
When he shuts the door behind him, Jefferson slides closer. He brushes the hair from my face and looks me right in the eyes. “You scared me half to death,” he says.
“How bad was it?”
“Bad enough that you scared me half to death.” He grabs a hunk of bread and gnaws off a huge bite. I ladle some soup into the bowl and spoon a sample into my mouth.
“I meant specifically,” I say, between sips.
“You keeled over on the bench, and I didn’t know anything was wrong for a moment, except that you were weak, because your eyes were still open and you were saying words. But the words didn’t make any sense. Then you just collapsed, and nothing I could do would rouse you. So I picked you up and carried you back here, and then I woke Henry and made him run and fetch Jasper.”
“You didn’t need to do that!”
“Oh, yes, I did. You were really pale, and your eyes were half open—and uncanny bright, like tigereye gemstones—but you wouldn’t respond to anything. Jasper came and tested your reflexes and listened to your heart and your breathing, and said he thought you’d be fine with some rest.”
“Jasper was here and I missed him?”
“He was here until after sunrise, when he said he needed to get back to his office and take care of his other patients. He plans to come by and check on you again this evening.”
My bowl of soup is already empty, so I ladle out some more. “So what did he say was wrong?”
“He was worried that maybe you’d had a stroke.”
“A stroke?”
“Like an apoplexy. But he said your reflexes were equally responsive on both sides of your body, and you were talking in your sleep. Your words were clear, so he decided that was a good sign, too.”
I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth. “What was I saying?”
“Stuff about gold. Becky kept Melancthon away, in case you started babbling about your power. You were just shining and smiling like you’d done something amazing.”
“To be fair, it was pretty amazing.”
He grins, which lights up his whole face. “Yes, it was.”
“I moved a whole safe full of gold.”
“From almost a hundred feet away!”
“It’s like, the bigger the gold is, the more it magnifies what I can do.” I shake my head, half in disbelief. “Do we know what happened to the gold and to the robber?”
All the light in his face is extinguished.
“Tell me.”
“Way I heard it, the guard spun a tale. Said he noticed the robbers hanging around earlier in the night, and he set a trap to catch them in the act. Had to let them get the safe out the door, so there was no question of their guilt.”
“And Hardwick believed that?”
“The boys from the hotel backed it up, said he came to them for help. Hardwick rewarded them all. But the safe was well sunk into the mud by the morning. They couldn’t budge it, so Hardwick hired some Chinese laborers to do the work.”
None of that explains his dour expression. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He takes another huge bite of bread, and follows it with a cut of sausage, and I can tell he’s playing for time to think about his answer. There’s still soup in my bowl, but I’ve lost my appetite, so I put it down.
“Jeff?”
“The guy in the wagon got away. They didn’t catch him, and he’s probably halfway to Mexico by now. His friend refused to tell them who he was.”
“And the one they caught?”
“The guard called the sheriff, and the sheriff came and arrested him.”
Trying to get the story out of him is like trying to weed dandelions from the garden. I might get a handful of truth, but every yank leaves just as much behind in the ground as I clear away.
“Did they take him to the jail with Hampton?” I ask.
“No,” he says, staring off at the floor. Then he turns to look at me. “They hanged him. Right there in the square.”
“Without a trial?”
“Sheriff said he was caught in the act, so he didn’t need a trial. There’s no tolerance for theft around here. They put up a gallows and hanged him just after sunrise.”
I cover my face with my hands, and then grab my pillow and pull it over my head. “It’s my fault,” I mumble through the pillow. “I got that poor man killed.”
“You did nothin
g of the sort,” Jefferson said. “That’s on the men doing the killing.”
“But I made sure he got caught!”
“You didn’t know what was going to happen. His friend got away, and he might have gotten away, too, if he hadn’t run back for—”
“Don’t! I don’t want to hear any excuses.”
My eyes are closed and my face is covered, but all I can see is that day back in the Hiram’s mine when I tried to give one of the Indians a drink of water, and Frank Dilley shot him dead. I tried to do a good thing, for selfish reasons, and it got a man killed. Now it’s happened again.
Jefferson’s hand rests on my shoulder, and I flinch away.
“Lee,” he says.
I fling the pillow at him, which he catches neatly. “You know, that could be you! Our plan to rob Hardwick could get you killed.”
He sets the pillow aside and comes over to sit beside me.
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s still the right thing.”
“Not if you get hanged.”
“That won’t happen. My father’s name is McCauley, right? Maybe I have a second sight of my own.”
He wraps an arm around me, and I’ve never been the clinging type, but I can’t help clutching fistfuls of his shirt and holding him tight against me, absorbing his warmth, taking him in. He smells of wood shavings and clean hay. “That’s not funny.”
“We’re going to be fine. Besides, this is proof that you’ve been right all along.”
I lift my head. “Huh?”
“Hardwick has no respect for laws and the process of justice,” Jefferson says. “If he’s not stopped, more people are going to get hurt. More people are going to die.”
“At least it won’t be you.”
“But it’ll be someone,” he says. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what Henry said. It’s all the people who don’t have a say in the government who get hurt by it. Indians, Negros, Chinese, women, children. Poor folk. We don’t mean anything to Hardwick and men like him. We can’t stop all of them, but we can stop him.”
“This robbery put a hiccup in our scheme.”
Jefferson reaches around me for another bite of bread. “Tomorrow is the auction. We’ll stick to that part of the plan and steal his reputation. We’ll figure out the rest too.”
“I guess.” I pick up the spoon and force myself to eat another bite. “Nobody ever got hanged for stealing a reputation, did they?”
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday morning comes, cold and plodding. Five of us attend the auction under a grim gray sky—me, Jefferson, Becky, Henry, and Mary. An auctioneer’s platform has been set up in Portsmouth Square, near the Custom House. A body hangs from a hastily constructed gallows, swaying in the wind. A group of dirty children makes a game of throwing pebbles at it.
It casts a pall over me, a long shadow that seems to follow me no matter where I stand or the angle of the shrouded sun. There’s no way to look at the auctioneer’s platform and not notice the limp body out of the corner of my eye. I can’t help staring at it, feeling that the dead man is staring right back, accusing.
“It’s not your fault,” Jefferson says as we wander through the milling multitude. “It’s Hardwick’s.”
“Are you sure you should be up and around?” Becky asks. She’s wearing a beautiful dress of soft green calico, which she gleefully chose in spite of it being an inappropriate color for this time of year. Her own minor mutiny, I suppose. “Jasper says you should rest and take it easy for a couple days.”
“I’m fine,” I say. It’s true. I do feel fine. Maybe I feel better than fine, the way you do after you run a mile to the neighbor’s house, chop an extra cord of wood, carry two full buckets from the spring instead of one. At first, the day after, you’re tired and sore. But then you get busy again, feeling stronger than ever.
Henry slipped away for a moment, but now he returns, handing out sheets of paper to all of us. “These are the preliminary auction items,” he says. “The map shows plots of land for sale, along with their estimated values. The other list is marked with opening bids.”
Mary skims the list and glances over the map. “Why did you say preliminary?”
Henry and I exchange a glance. The preliminary lists circulate first, and that is part of our plan. But I shut the thought down as soon as it forms. I don’t see Helena Russell anywhere, but she’s sure to be near.
“At these auctions, they often circulate one list early to see what people’s reactions are, then print another, final list, with prices higher or lower, based on what they think they can get,” Henry says.
“They’ll hand out the final list right before the auction starts,” Jefferson adds.
“Well, that’s clever,” Mary says.
“There’s my house!” Becky says. “They have no right to sell my house.” She turns toward the crowd and shouts it again. “They have no right to auction off my house!”
“Right doesn’t come into it,” I say.
“It’s whatever they think they can get away with,” Jefferson says. “Speaking of getting away with things . . .”
He tenses, like his hackles are going up, and I follow his gaze.
Two workmen in muddy coats stomp up the platform steps, hauling an auctioneer’s podium. They’re followed by a thin man in a blue-striped shirt and a pair of round spectacles. He wields a gavel, like a judge.
Following the auctioneer is Frank Dilley. The burned half of Dilley’s face shimmers with glycerin, making his sneer gleam like the edge of a knife. His jacket is pulled back to reveal the guns in his holster, one on each hip.
Dilley is the last fellow I care to see, but I’m a little relieved at the same time. If he’s here as Hardwick’s representative, then maybe Hardwick won’t be coming at all. Which means we might be clear of Helena’s second sight for a spell.
The workmen deposit the podium in the center of the stage. Frank Dilley drops a lockbox beside it; it thumps hollowly. It won’t be hollow by the end of the auction. And from here, it’s just a short walk to the bank, where he’ll add it to the rest of Hardwick’s money.
Watching it all makes me wish our practice run had gone a whole heap better. There’s still so much we don’t know, and tonight will be for real.
Dilley twirls the key to the lockbox on his finger, bored as he surveys the crowd. He gaze lands on me. He snaps his fist closed on the key and shoves it into his pocket.
“We’ve been spotted,” I say, remembering that we have as much right to be here as anyone, that of course Hardwick and his people knew we’d come. I shuffle my feet and fight the urge to run.
“At least Miss Russell isn’t here,” Jefferson says, softly, soothingly. His calmness is an anchor as my emotions roil like a storm. “After our failed practice run, we deserve a spot of luck.”
I glance around for Helena one last time, but as far as I can tell, Becky, Mary, and I are the only women here. Still, I discipline my mind, just in case. I will think only of my tiny role today. Concentrate on my outrage. Nothing else.
“Final prices! Final prices!”
A towheaded little boy, not much bigger than Andy, scampers into the crowd from the direction of the printer’s office. He lugs a huge stack of papers and hands them out to everyone he sees. The crowd murmurs at the updated sheets.
Henry grabs a handful. “Well, this is it, then,” he says, distributing them to us. “We should probably split up for better effect.”
Jefferson grins and heads off to the far edge of the crowd, in the opposite direction of Henry.
“This should be interesting,” Mary says, then weaves nearer to the podium.
Becky reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Good luck,” I tell her.
“We don’t need luck.”
The little boy hands the remaining copies to the auctioneer. I watch for his reaction. He stares at the price list, then takes his glasses off, wipes them clean, and stares at the sheets again.
A voice whispers at my side. “Are
you ready?”
I look up and find Jim Boisclair. “Ready, willing, and able. You?”
“Always,” he says. “Might even pick up a lot for my general store.”
“Better be careful—I hear they’ll sell the same lot right out from under you.”
“You don’t say?”
The auctioneer places the list on the podium before him. He stares at it one last time. Then he picks up the gavel and bangs. “We’ll begin with the sale of future lots!”
Jim steps forward, lifting his sheet high. “Hold on! They’re auctioning off a lot I already bought and paid for!”
I give it a few seconds to sink in, listening to the growing unease around me. Then I wave my sheet in the air like a battle flag. “They’re trying to rob us! Selling the same property twice!”
From across the crowd, I hear Becky’s voice. “They’re selling my house! Which I own free and clear!”
From another direction, Mary, with a strong Spanish accent: “They’re robbing us! Ladrones!”
The voices of women in peril have gotten everyone’s attention. People in the crowd bow over their lists, studying them with a critical eye.
Henry yells, “Is that my trunk you’re selling?”
Jefferson: “You can’t sell my land without my say-so!”
The auctioneer bangs his gavel, but the crowd is provoked now. The murmur swells to a roar of angry voices. Frank Dilley’s right hand moves to his gun belt.
“I already own this lot on Front Street! I paid for it last week!”
“Lot twenty-two on Fremont belongs to me!”
“What’s going on here?”
“Crooks!”
Jim leads a surge toward the podium, and I follow in his wake. “I demand an explanation,” he says. “What’s going on here!”
“We have a right to know,” I shout. “Why is Hardwick trying to rob us?”
Someone, a stranger, hollers, “Hardwick’s trying to rob all of us!”