“One rider, Captain. A boy. And he is in a hurry.”
Boone jumps in, confirming what is more obvious with every passing second. “Captain, wait. I see only one horse.”
“Hold the line! Do not fire until my signal!” Mulgrew seems visibly annoyed by his own order.
“He has someone with him,” I say, “across the back of the saddle.”
A hundred yards out, the boy sees the guns pointed at him and pulls back, but only slightly, slowing his tawny thoroughbred to a canter before stopping her completely. The horse cries out, as though she could not take one more step. She starts to falter, legs wobbling, utterly exhausted. A splintered faction of spectators and armed Pinkertons appear at the rear of the scaffold to intercept them. I race for the back stairs, Mulgrew and Bix following, and somewhere behind them, the mayor.
The boy looks about twelve, his tender skin chapped and sunburned by the blistering ride. His eyes are red from crying and, where tears have been, crusted rivers stream down his face. He jumps off the horse, brave as can be, and starts to pull at the man laid facedown over the haunches. He slides the body toward him and it would surely crush him if Bix and Jasper Goodhope did not intervene. “My pa. The blast got him.”
Boone pushes to the front. “What blast?”
“The bank, in Agua Verde,” the boy says. “Pa was standing behind it when . . . it just blew up!” A fresh round of sobbing overcomes him. They set the boy’s father down on the ground and stretch him out on his back. And then we see it.
“Oh my God,” Boone mutters. The man clings to life by the grace of angels. His entire front side—arms, torso and head—lays charred in a ghostly white powder. A raspy, dry cough sputters out of him, misting the air with fine chalky dust. Deep in my stomach a dull, sickening knot tries to kick itself free. Boone’s mouth hangs open. “When . . . did this happen, son?”
“’Bout an hour ago. And the doc weren’t around. Everybody’s here. I run him straight over.”
“This happened in Agua Verde?” the mayor asks.
“Yes, sir. You gotta save him, please. Please!”
“I’ll fetch the doc,” Jasper says, sprinting off.
“And someone tend to that horse,” Merle says, appearing behind me. I turn to meet his eyes, and find in them the same disbelief that mine must show. I look to Mulgrew and finally to Boone, whose stunned face confirms the impossible.
“It cannot be. It cannot be,” Boone says. He looks back at the body hanging inert below the scaffold. I remember my hands. The black liquid mixes with my own sweat and runs down my forearm into my shirt. The faint odor of alcohol and spirits reaches my nose. I bring my hands up and take a sniff, all at once recognizing what it is.
“If the Snowman is still out there, then who the hell did we just hang?” Boone asks.
“An impostor,” I say, extending my blackened palms for all to see. “Shoe polish. He was dyeing his hair with it.”
“That’s why he kept askin’ for it.” Bix interjects. “Son of a bitch!”
“But . . . why?” Boone implores. “Why would a man let himself get hanged?”
“Hold on just a minute,” the captain barks. “Who says we hanged the wrong man? We don’t know that. Just ’cause of some boot polish? We are not jumping to any conclusions. We don’t know what happened in Agua Verde.”
“For God’s sake, Captain. Look at the man,” Boone says, pointing to the boy’s dying father. “White as a bedsheet. It’s his trademark.”
“Could be copycats.”
“You know it’s not,” Boone counters. “No one can rig a bomb like the Snowman. Even his own men cannot do it.”
“Enough!” Mulgrew shouts. “I’ll not hear another word of this until I get confirmation. Now you, half-breed, you get in there and cut that sumbitch down!”
I reach into to my pocket, searching for that two dollars to throw in his face, when a voice rises from the crowd behind us. “Make a hole! Coming though! Western Union, coming through.” All eyes turn to see Bertram Merriman bound down the steps of the post office and into the throng. The crowd parts for him and he comes running over, deeply troubled, the ribbon of telegraph paper whipping from his hand like a streamer. “Captain Mulgrew! Telegram for the captain,” Bertram says, panting.
“What is it?” Mulgrew grumbles.
“Urgent news, Captain. There’s been a robbery. At the bank.”
“We know that, Bertram,” Boone says, annoyed. “In Agua Verde. A boy rode that news in faster than your machine could deliver it.”
“No,” Bertram says. “Not Agua Verde. This comes from Heavendale.”
“Heavendale?!” the captain growls. “When?”
“About five minutes ago.” Bertram gazes down at dots and dashes and reads aloud. “Heavendale Trust robbed. Two clerks dead. Massive explosion. Snowman.”
I turn and stare out at the desert. A sultry haze bakes on the horizon. Somewhere to the west, a band of riders, laden with the riches of the entire valley, is charging full bore for the hills. I recall a tall man in blue and have no doubt he leads the way. There will be a party in the Sangres tonight. And a black-haired outlaw named Garrison LaForge will pour the first drink.
PART III
SNOWFALL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Until this morning, Silas Townes was the wealthiest man in Agua Verde. Now he sweats through his waistcoat in the Bend’s meetinghouse and laments the violent departure of the bulk of his fortune. “Dammit, Boone! The entire valley’s bankrupted and it happened on your watch. Incompetence, top to bottom.”
The rest of his words get swallowed up in the roar of shouts and insults that has consumed the proceedings for the better part of an hour. I lean against the back wall where an open window offers small relief from the close, dank air that accompanies broken dreams and finger-pointing.
“Now hang on,” Bennett Whitlock interjects, coming to the mayor’s defense. “You cannot lay this all on Walter. We all thought we had the Snowman. There was a trial.”
“Conducted by Boone and his ill-prepared nephew,” Townes says, seething.
“And a federal judge out of Heavendale. Don’t forget that,” says Captain Mulgrew, one of the few men lucky enough to occupy a chair in the cramped room. “The judge was sent under authority of the governor himself.”
“Yes, I have been in contact with the governor, Captain. We cabled one another not thirty minutes ago. Let me assure you that Santa Fe is most distraught and embarrassed by this catastrophe.”
“He said all that by cable?” Boone asks.
“The governor and I are fast friends, Boone. Such is the respect one gets when you’re the mayor of a real town and not some dusty hamlet that just sunk the territory.”
“Monsignor,” someone cries. “What news of the boy?” All eyes fall upon a gaunt figure whose black robe darkens the doorway, obscuring the moonlit sky.
“The doctor is doing his best,” says the monsignor. “It is in God’s hands now.” Heavendale is a godly town. Within its borders there is no doubt some rich businessman like Boone or Townes who calls himself mayor, but the real power in Heavendale lies with the church. And its ranking official just walked into the room, followed dutifully by our own padre.
The monsignor moves toward the table where Bennett Whitlock finds himself rising to surrender his chair. The clergyman descends into the seat with a slight nod to Townes and then lets his eyes come to a scornful stop upon Mayor Boone.
“Now, about our money . . .”
The leaders of three towns—three chiefs in a sweat lodge—have been brought together under the banner of a single calamity for which no one appears eager to claim responsibility.
“Easy to sit in judgment, gentlemen,” Boone begins. “But I’ll not let any man here claim that he would have done anything different had the situation been reversed. This patsy of a fellow was in the bank! He was positively identified. He claimed to be LaForge, steadfastly, up until the moment he stood at death’s door, and in that mo
ment a man will say anything to spare his neck.”
“Except it was the truth,” Townes says.
“Do you not see the brilliance of the ruse, Silas?” the mayor says with a dose of incredulous admiration. “The real Snowman was clearly one of the other bandits who got away. This mysterious man in blue seems the most likely candidate. That poor sap in the gallows genuinely thought he was to be rescued. He was as duped as we were, tricked into his own death by some false promise. So let us add betrayal and manipulation to the already extensive list of the Snowman’s sinister abilities.”
“Perhaps had you not been so greedy in your salesmanship of this hanging spectacle,” the monsignor announces, “the bank in Heavendale, where the church, I will tell you, had extensive savings, would not have been left so vulnerable. Nor the bank in Agua Verde.”
“Hear, hear!” cries a voice that is quickly seconded.
I take a look at the faces around the room and determine that the citizenry of Caliche Bend is represented only by a third of those in attendance. The rest are strangers—angry, bitter folks from the far corners of the valley smarting from the newness of being robbed.
It’s your fault, Boone!” shouts a red-faced woman.
“No, it’s the Pinkertons who bear the blame! We pay you good money to safeguard our own, not to leave it unattended.”
“You check that tone, sir,” growls Mulgrew. “We were acting on an order from the governor to protect that man until his hanging and that is what we done.”
“While neglecting your other duties!”
“The Pinkertons are still on the job, sir! We’ll find the money and string up the men what stole it.”
“I suggest you do just that, Captain,” Silas Townes says, “because the governor also made it clear that he is halting payment to the Pinkerton Company, pending further investigation.”
“He can’t do that. We had a signed contract with the territory.”
“The territory, by all rights, could sue you in court for negligence.”
“Hell, you say.”
“You want to avoid a lawsuit, Captain? Get out there and find our money.”
The captain explodes and jabs his meaty finger in my direction. “I’ll remind you that it weren’t the Pinkertons who brung in the wrong man!”
All at once the air drains from the room. I feel the threatening pricks of a hundred daggers just waiting to pierce my flesh as most eyes turn toward me.
“It’s true. Harlan Two-Trees brought this misery upon us.” I turn to see Polly McPhee, her voice quavering with rage. “He brought that patsy right into our town.”
“Hear, hear!”
“I’ll wager he’s in on it,” Silas Townes adds. “I hear he lost nary a nickel when the Loan and Trust got hit.”
Then the voices bark from all direction, some achingly familiar, others tinged with the barb of anonymity. “You can’t trust the heathens!”
“And a whore-lovin’ one at that.”
“Hold on now, folks,” Boone says. “Harlan showed great courage . . . despite . . . perhaps . . . some overzealous judgment.”
“He could have grabbed the loot, though! He was right there.”
“You cannot expect this miscegenated orphan to know the proper course. He is of . . .” Boone’s voice trails off.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Of limited faculties. Forgive me, son. I urged you not to go up there alone. I did.”
I push forward off the wall, the hairs on my neck standing at full attention. I want no one behind me, no one I cannot see coming. The sound drops from the room again as I start to speak. “I asked all who was willing to ride out there with me. Not a soul spoke up. Do I misremember? Polly, your boardinghouse been full up for a week and I did not hear you complaining about that. Still, if you all want to lay it on me ’cause of my skin, or what mamma did, or ’cause I am a bastard, so be it. But if you think I am one of them who shot down the sheriff who loved me, who raised me as his own? Let any man here say as much to my face.”
A boot scrapes across the floor. Two black shadows rise in my periphery. Pinkertons. I cannot remember resting my palm on the handle of the Colt, but I feel it there now, sure as day. A click comes from behind me and I know the captain has drawn his gun.
“Go home, Harlan.” It is a voice I know well, but it rings void of its usual friendship. “Just go on.” I pivot my head to see Big Jack. He looks like he has aged ten years since this morning and somewhere along the way learned how to be mean. I hold him in my gaze until he breaks away. There is a loneliness that overtakes a man after two or three days in the desert by himself, but it is nothing compared to what weighs on my heart as I stride toward the door of the meetinghouse.
“May the Lord have mercy on your soul, my son.” I stop and glance back at the monsignor, who has not bothered to stand.
“Your Lord got nothing to do with it.” I step outside without closing the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Weather shifts on a dime in the high desert. The seasons sneak up without warning. Just past sundown the cold moved in, not too long before the stares of the townspeople—who had viewed me kindly or at least with smug indifference until now—turned icy.
Storm takes it easy on me as we make our way behind the Dry Goods out toward the fire road that leads back to Sheriff’s. But as the church clock strikes up midnight, the stallion finds the excuse to get ornery and makes sure I know that it is long past his bedtime. I tell him to quit his fussin’, that it has been a long day for me too.
Save for those bodies clogging up the meetinghouse, and the two dozen or so more working through the whiskey down at Merle’s place, the Bend has mostly emptied out. The exodus was quick, leaving streets littered and ravaged as people scattered like roaches back to their homes in the wake of the day’s stunning revelations. The cleanup—a disheartening prospect—looms as tomorrow’s problem.
I welcome the quiet and the return of the familiar sounds of night. The wilderness calls to me, pulling at my blood. I think about how things could be different. That first night in the Sangres, I could have just kept going, not tangling with the Snowman at all. The mountains have claimed better men than I. Or maybe I could have stayed up there, with a beard as thick as bramble, surviving on what the hard land provided and nothing more. But to steer that course would not have done right by the sheriff, not for all the good and care he and Missus bestowed upon me.
My mind reels. Maybe the blame for this sorry affair lies at my feet after all. Had my Injun nose not been so eager to key on a single whiff of quick match, the sheriff never would have gotten down to the bank in time to catch a round from the Snowman’s barrel. The Bend would still have its lawman instead of being poisoned by Pinkertons. Boone’s unchecked hubris and boundless greed—without Sheriff’s calming presence to temper them—managed to sink the town in barely a week. If I had kept my mouth shut, as I had most of my life, this blackness would have never found purchase.
It was pure vengeance that drove me up into the hills and a thirst for glory that brought me back down again to march through the center of town with that cursed impostor trussed up behind me. It was attaining that glory that drew Maria’s eye. And it was my vanity and lust for another woman that cost Maria her life.
Jed Barnes hated me for the color of my skin, but it was my refusal to carry myself as anything other than a godless, hooting savage that truly enraged him. Now I trudge home with a heavy, sickening understanding that what the rest of the town thinks about me is hardly any different than what Jed Barnes thought.
The morning will bring clearer heads, I know. The hysteria of blame will blow over and this melancholy that now grips me shall pass with no more disruption than a bout of indigestion. By the twelfth clang of the bell, I feel almost myself again.
As we pass the public stables behind the hotel, I hear a horse bray. The low, coaxing voice of a man trying to soothe it follows. The baritone utterance hardly coincides with that of the squ
eaky-voiced stable boy—Otis Chandler’s eldest—who would normally be the one shoveling out manure at this hour. Either that or dozing on his bench. A quick scan of the perimeter shows no sign of the freckled lad. The weak glow of a lantern flickers far inside the rear door among the stalls.
My mind goes quickly to the prospect of horse thieves. I drop down off Storm and silently order him to stay put. The ground appears and vanishes beneath my toes as I glide toward the edge of the barn. Easing my thumb down onto the hammer of the Colt, I slip in through the wide-open door and train my eye on the darkness, waiting for the first hint of movement.
“Easy, girl.” His voice, pitched barely above a whisper, carries such soporific mellifluence that it could surely return even the most colicky baby to the depths of slumber. The gentle horse rustler. I close the distance between us, bring up the gun, and step into the lantern’s paltry throw.
“Hold it there—,” I say. But the words have only just left my mouth when I recognize the familiar line of his sideburns and angular slope of his cheekbones and nose.
He turns, startled at the sight of the gun, but then slides seamlessly into a comfortable disposition of kinship. “Ah, Mister Two-Trees,” says the gambler.
“Mister Willis.”
“I see your reputation as a near-phantom is not ill-placed. You took me for a horse thief, I gather.”
“That I did,” I say, holstering the Colt.
“Well, you certainly had the drop on me. Well done, sir.”
“We’re all good at something.”
“She’s beautiful, is she not?”
“Come again?”
Avery Willis turns from me and runs his hand along the muscular, chestnut neck of the filly, his spoil from the poker game. “Her name’s Athena. The goddess of beauty.”
“A fine horse.”
“One of the best I’ve seen.”
“I know you’ve seen many.”
Willis turns, serious now. “What do you mean by that?”
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