by E. L. Ripley
“Where did you hear about that exchange?” he asked curiously, as though he wasn’t well aware that last night he’d dined with the very men who had tried for Silva on the trail. In fact, Isaiah had been the one doing the shouting. Carpenter was still a little irked that he hadn’t recognized the man’s voice at the time. Though Isaiah hadn’t recognized his, either. Or had he? Was that why they hadn’t made their move? “Are you keeping company with bandits and bushwhackers? Weren’t you just now telling me about Silva’s low character? You tell the tale almost as though you were there yourself.” He didn’t wait for Hale to say anything. “You don’t understand what I’m doing?” He shook his head. “I’m the one who doesn’t understand. Why are you going this far?”
“There’s nothing I won’t do for my family, Bill. You would do the same.”
Carpenter nodded, taking a bite of his food. That was true, most likely.
It still didn’t make sense. A factory would hurt no one. Silva and his ambitions were no possible threat to Hale and his, and in fact they were essential. Getting rid of Silva was contrary to Hale’s interests. Was he so bullheaded that he couldn’t see that? He had invested in this settlement, and he wanted to let it dry up and die? Over some sort of grudge, one Carpenter still didn’t fully comprehend? It didn’t feel right.
“Bill,” Hale said at last, sighing, “it may be that if this place doesn’t agree with you, you ought as well go on yourself. It was good seeing you.”
“And you,” Carpenter replied immediately, putting down his utensils and twisting to offer his hand. “And the rest. You don’t know what it means to me to see that you’re all well. And that you’ve done well.”
“We’ll do better yet. I wish you could be here to share in it. But I suppose you can’t.” Hale got to his feet with a groan and picked up his hat, laying money on the bar. “Whenever you do get settled, wherever that may be, write me, Bill.”
He took Carpenter’s hand, and they shook.
A handsome gray mare was waiting for Hale outside. Carpenter watched him climb into the saddle, and then went back to his breakfast. Behind him, the men at the nearest table were talking about some quartz that had been found at the north end of the valley, on another man’s claim.
It was always possible that there was gold here, and the problem was that no one had found it yet. But if that was the case, how had Hale known to build here?
The newspaperman had gone back into his shop, and the crowd he’d attracted was dispersing. The mission of smearing Silva’s name further was accomplished for the morning. Carpenter wondered how much Hale had paid the newspaperman for this favor.
He finished his meal and left the hotel, stepping into the street and shielding his eyes against the sun, avoiding the mud as another coach passed. A preacher, one with only a tent, was accosting people at the far end of the street. He’d have to preach from sunup to sundown if he wanted to compete with Reverend Brown, who had money, Hale’s support, and an actual church.
Was that what the Almighty had in mind? Competition?
Carpenter bumped his hat against his thigh to get some of the dust off it, then put it on. There was only one man louder than the preacher: one finely dressed, advertising the superiority of the girls at his establishment and assuring the passing prospectors that the joint down the street couldn’t possibly compare. That there were only two such places here said something about the stalled growth of the settlement.
How long did Carpenter have to get out of town? It was difficult to say, but the count had begun.
The same count that had been under way for Silva for a while now, it seemed. That gave it all an element of urgency that explained some of what Carpenter was feeling.
But not all of it.
Relaxed as he had wanted to appear, it wasn’t just a guilty conscience that had brought Hale to the hotel this morning. Time wasn’t running out only for Carpenter and Silva; it was for Hale as well. His sense of urgency made that clear.
What wasn’t clear was why.
Carpenter looked to the west. Past the town, past the pines, the mountains were still there. The peaks were covered in snow, no doubt cold and crisp. Down here, it was just hot and dusty, and that wasn’t likely to change.
He sighed and trudged across the street, pulling open the door of the general store and going in. The shopkeeper kept a good shop, neat and clean, though tellingly empty.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” Carpenter replied, his eyes going over it all. Three full barrels of pickaxes, and there were at least three more in the hardware tent two doors down. Sifters and spades. It was only morning, but it felt like the sun was already setting on Antelope Valley.
He bought some of the man’s best tobacco and rolled a smoke, which he lit. “Who’s the best man to buy a horse from?” he asked.
“That would be Mr. Hale,” the shopkeeper replied at once, absently rubbing at a stain on his waistcoat. “He keeps them on Mr. Brown’s property. You won’t find better near here.”
“No doubt.”
“Though you may have to wait to do business. Some of Mr. Hale’s men rode out early this morning.”
“Going where?”
“Hardly my business.” The other man shrugged. “To the south.”
Carpenter took that in. After a moment, he picked up a Spencer rifle and looked it over.
“That fellow,” he said, glancing at the door. “The one they talk about. Building the factory.”
“Mr. Silva. I don’t know him.”
And he didn’t want to talk about him. “Where was his plot for the factory?”
“Just north of town. Quarter mile up the trail. Or road, rather.”
Carpenter sighed and laid the rifle back down.
“Too costly for you?” the shopkeeper asked.
“In a manner of speaking.” He pushed it away. “That, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Silva wasn’t at the hotel, but his wagon was, and his horses.
Maria was there, though. Carpenter could hear the clicking of her claws as she padded around restlessly on the other side of the door.
Leaving his things in his own room, he instructed the barman to let the dog outside and feed her something if no one else did within the hour. That done, he ventured out again to a street that was doing its best impression of bustling as the day wore on.
Isaiah was outside the other hotel, the one beside the barbershop, his feet on the table and a glass in his hand. It was a posture to which he appeared accustomed.
He watched Carpenter, but didn’t call out or wave. He was wearing a gun, but unlike Joe, it wasn’t the same one he’d had during the war. It was bigger and looked well used.
Carpenter nodded to him, but kept walking. He’d caught a glimpse of Joe in the sheriff’s office. Who had ridden out, then? Fred? O’Doul? John hadn’t been at dinner last night, but he was still around somewhere. And Yates. Carpenter still hadn’t seen Yates.
Hale’s riders had gone south, according to the shopkeeper. Carpenter trudged north. The mud of the street quickly gave way to the dust of the trail, though someone had gone to some effort to make it easily passable. That had probably been Silva or his business partner, anticipating shipments of goods and hoping for easy travel.
This was where the dust was worst, and he pulled up his bandanna.
The sounds of the settlement, however pitiful, faded behind him and were replaced by the wind and what sounded like a good-sized stream. It was an uphill journey, though not a cruel one. Occasional rustles in the woods always made him look, hoping for a glance of that stag from the night before, but he wouldn’t get another look at that animal. It had seen the danger, and it had fled, as anything unburdened by pride or other foolishness would.
The breeze didn’t make the sun any less blisteri
ng, and he wiped his face with his bandanna and pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes.
It wasn’t quite as far as the shopkeeper believed. Silva’s land was more or less level, but it still needed work. As for the factory, there wasn’t one. Massive stacks of timber waited, some with dewy spiderwebs gleaming between them. It was all untouched, and there were still a few tree stumps left to be removed. Mounds of dirt and gravel had been prepared, but not yet put to use smoothing and strengthening the trail for the wagons that would have to come and go.
A shadow passed as he went into the midst of the building materials. He looked up in alarm, but there weren’t any buzzards in the air, only hawks.
Silva wasn’t a corpse, but he was sitting as still as one, perched on some of the timber.
He still wore his clothes from the night before, though it was a relief to see he had his hat on.
Carpenter didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to wait long.
“My partner, Mr. Karr, has not appeared in town,” Silva said.
“Does he have a family?”
“He does.”
“Then he’s doing right by them.” If someone had to choose between angering Silva and angering Hale, anyone with any sense would side with Hale. Silva’s partner wasn’t doing anything surprising, and he likely had more sense than Silva himself.
After a moment, Silva nodded. Then he smiled and looked down at Carpenter.
“You have a charitable way of regarding people,” he said.
“I say charitable things,” Carpenter corrected him, folding his arms. “But I’m thinking the same thing as everyone else. More times than not anyways.”
“No sign of our workers, and not an ounce of progress.”
Carpenter could see that for himself. Would it be wise to mention the latest slander against Silva? He probably didn’t know about it yet, but it would do nothing to improve his already bleak way of looking at things.
“You ought to get out of the sun,” he suggested instead.
“I brought provisions.” Silva held up his bottle.
That would not help. “A picnic alone? You might have invited me.”
“Mr. Carpenter, as your friend, I believe I have an interest in your well-being. Particularly after you helped me last night. Is being in my company advantageous to you in any way? I think not.”
That wasn’t unreasonable. Silva squinted up at the hawks for a moment, then lowered himself to the ground, leaving the bottle behind. He walked through the weeds to join Carpenter in the middle of it all.
“It doesn’t look like much,” he said, gazing around at the raw materials. “For an endeavor that’s taken years from me.”
It was hard to know what to say to that. A pair of squirrels was running along the top of the nearest stack of timber, oblivious to the hawks.
“There are those who find me tolerable.”
Silva turned, taken aback. He raised an eyebrow. “Your pardon, Mr. Carpenter?”
“They tolerate me. Out of what I guess you might call a sense of obligation. And there are those who don’t.” He shrugged. “Because of the things that I’ve done, and most of all the things I ain’t done. Being a coward, being soft, and not being what they all thought I ought to be. And so on.” He waved a hand. “My wife was the only person who ever saw all that, and not only did she not despise it—she preferred it. Or so she always said.”
Silva was at a loss for words, but Carpenter wasn’t fishing for a reply.
“I used to be afraid of losing her. Now she’s gone.” Carpenter rubbed at his cheek, which still needed a shave. “And the sun keeps on coming up. It don’t matter why. Let it go.”
The other man laughed bitterly. “My house is ashes, Mr. Carpenter. My cargo? Vanished. Stolen from the middle of camp.” He shook his head. “My time? Worthless. My partner gone. My money.” He snorted and gestured at the nearest pile of timber. “You’re looking at it. My prospects? Even my—” And he stopped there, taking a deep breath through his nose. He’d been about to say something about the girl, O’Doul’s daughter.
“I know.”
“I have nothing,” Silva snarled.
“I’m no different.” Carpenter started to roll a smoke. He smiled at Silva. “And it’s all right. You understand? It’s all right.”
Silva shook his head, jaw clenched. “No, Mr. Carpenter. It is not right.”
And Carpenter hadn’t meant to say that it was, at least not that exactly, but he didn’t get the chance to go on. Silva’s posture had changed, and the look on his face had, if it was possible, gotten even colder.
A minute ago the heat of the sun had been a nuisance. Now it felt very far off.
Carpenter turned to see William standing fairly close by with a pistol in his hand. The gun looked comfortable there, and last night he’d seen for himself that the boy knew how it was used.
There were two others with him: one who’d been around the house at dinner, but not at the table—his name was Perkins—and another Carpenter had never seen before, both fairly young and thankfully unarmed. It stood to reason: Hale’s men from the war, his friends, his inner circle—none of them were getting any younger. His daughters hadn’t looked likely to be much help on the farm. He had only the one son, William, so he had to employ some help.
That was who these men were.
“Howdy, Will,” Carpenter said. “Does your pa know you’re here?”
At first the gun hadn’t been aimed at anyone, but the boy didn’t hesitate. He lifted it, pointing it squarely at Silva.
“You put that down,” William told him.
Silva hadn’t moved, but he was getting ready to. There was no fear in him. And why would there be? Fear was for men with something to lose. William didn’t have a clue what he was doing. No doubt he thought he did, but that could be said of any boy his age.
It took everything Carpenter had not to open his mouth, but he didn’t have to. Silva saw the look on his face. William was only a boy, and his pa did not know he was here. Hale wasn’t the man Carpenter remembered, but he hadn’t gone so low that he would send his own blood on a dirty errand like this.
Silva spread his hands just enough that one of the men was able to take the pistol from his holster and tuck it into his own belt.
“Something you want to tell me?” William asked. “Mr. Silva?”
Silva’s eyes lingered on Carpenter’s face, and a little reason seemed to return to them. He looked at the man who’d taken his pistol.
“Thurgood,” he said. “Hale won’t like this.”
“What he don’t like is that you’re still here,” the man replied.
“Don’t you ignore me,” William warned.
“Are you here to murder me, Will?” Silva asked tiredly.
“If I wanted to do that, I’d’ve just shot you five minutes ago,” the boy replied, nodding to Perkins, who put his fist in Silva’s kidney hard enough to send him to his knees in the dirt, groaning. “I just want you gone, and you’re dragging your feet. You need a push.” The words sounded rehearsed.
William snapped the pistol around to Carpenter as he started to move forward.
“Now, you just stay on back, Mr. Carpenter,” he said. “This is not your business.”
Carpenter stopped, but Perkins didn’t. He grabbed Silva, and Thurgood hit him in the face, spotting the dirt and the weeds with drops of blood.
“This is a mistake,” Carpenter told them, his eye twitching.
“The mistake was my pa naming me after you, and not just putting a bullet in this damn Mexican,” William said frankly.
Silva tried to resist, and Perkins just threw him to the ground. Thurgood stepped in and delivered a vicious kick to his ribs. Silva had been stoic as the blows rained on him, and all but silent, but now he cried out.
“For God’s sake, the
point’s made,” Carpenter snapped. “It ain’t needed! I had him sold. We were about to go!”
“Didn’t sound sold to me,” the boy said, glancing back, but only for a moment, to see Silva shield his head from another kick. “And why would I trust you to do anything, old fellow? I seen you on the trail. You couldn’t even put down your own horse. What good are you?”
Silva was on his hands and knees, bloody and covered in dirt. Perkins and Thurgood stood over him, looking questioningly at William. They might have been reasonably good hands on the estate, but they were not the most attentive men.
Silva was attentive, though. He’d been watching Perkins’ right boot since the first kick landed, and so had Carpenter, with a churning stomach and sweat like ice.
There had been a chance when Silva gave up his pistol. He’d seen what Carpenter had: that William was young and stupid, and that it didn’t have to be like they all thought it did. But that moment had come and gone, and now they were living in a different one.
There was no look, and no words from Carpenter could change it now. It was like the forest knew; the animals had all shut up, and even the sun didn’t want to look.
The clouds moved in, Silva saw his chance, and he took it. He snatched Perkins’ boot knife and rammed it into the other man’s thigh, twisting sharply.
William flinched and whirled at the cry of agony, and Carpenter knocked the pistol from his hand. There wasn’t time to think about it, and that was the worst feeling he’d ever known. Nothing was easier than acting without thinking, but there was always a bill to pay, and bringing it to account was never as easy as racking it up.
But he’d done it before, and he did it now. Carpenter struck with his fist, sending William crashing to the ground.
Thurgood reached for Silva’s pistol in his belt, but Silva kicked his feet from under him, and Carpenter was there in time for a kick of his own, which sent the gun tumbling away through the bloody weeds.
Perkins pulled the knife from his leg and slashed at Silva, who narrowly avoided the blade, spilling to the ground. Carpenter swung at Thurgood, who ducked and hit back, doubling him over, then clubbing him full in the back with both fists to knock him flat.
