Nudging the bundle of fabric aside, I lifted the first stack and deposited it on the rug. The English alphabet swam across the page.
When I looked up, I saw that James wasn’t studying the papers, though. He was still staring into the trunk. The bundle of fabric had fallen at an angle, revealing the feather-tipped shaft of an arrow.
Painted red and blue.
Reaching in, I untangled the twine and peeled back the fabric, revealing dozens of arrows painted in the Sioux’s warrior colors. I picked one up, holding it in the loop of my fingers. It appeared unused.
I frowned at James, who seemed equally stunned.
James, who still had a Sioux arrow lodged in his back.
How many attacks had there been? How many had died? How many on the land George Rinehart wanted to purchase?
The land that until recently had given up no gold at all.
An enraged shout echoed from the street below — a battle cry from the gathered townsmen.
“The Sioux aren’t doing this,” I said. “Are they?”
Footsteps thundered in the hall.
I dropped the arrow and scrambled to my feet just as the door opened. An unfamiliar man stood with a key in hand, confused that the door wasn’t locked. He was big in every way — big head, big shoulders, big hands. His gaze fell on me.
I grabbed the stack of linens from the bed, holding them like a shield.
“Laundry service,” I said. “Ri-nu-hart?”
“That’s Charlie Smith,” said James. “Rinehart’s right-hand man.”
I looked again at those big callused hands.
“Who let you in here?” Charlie barked, taking in the open trunk, the scattered papers, the arrow.
“Laundry?” I repeated, trying at innocence.
With a snarl, Charlie lunged at me, and I ducked, tossing the linens into his face. He stopped just long enough to swat them away, giving me time to snatch the bundle of arrows from the trunk. I rushed forward, but the burly man sidestepped with me, reaching for my arms.
I spun away and ran to the window instead, shoving the pane upward and launching myself toward the balcony. A hand seized my ankle. I kicked my heel into Charlie’s nose, and he reared back, taking one of my shoes with him. I pulled myself one-handed through the window and collapsed in a heap on the balcony.
The sun had dropped behind the hills, and Main Street was lit by gas lamps and saloon windows. But the men were still there, separating into groups, deciding which direction each would go on their avenging party.
Gripping the rail, I pulled myself up. “Help!” I screamed, glad when a dozen faces turned upward.
A hand landed on my arm. I tried to shake it away, but another was on me just as fast, dragging me back toward the window. I screamed again and, with a grunt, tossed the arrows over the railing. Someone yelped, followed by the crash of wood and arrowheads.
“Murderer!” I screamed. My head collided with the window frame. I flinched but kept yelling. “George Rinehart ordered those men to be killed”— I yanked my hand away from Charlie’s grip, leaving scratches where his nails had dug in — “and he’s blaming the Sioux for it! He murdered them! He —” A hand clamped over my mouth, and I was pulled back through the window and tossed to the carpet. Air fled from my lungs.
Charlie slammed my head against the floor, straddling my stomach. A string of vile insults dripped from his mouth, but stars were creeping into my vision and I barely heard him. My hands scrambled across the floor, searching for a weapon, anything —
I heard a strained noise from James, then something was shoved into my hand. My fingers clamped around the shaft of the last arrow, the one I’d dropped before.
As my vision gave way to darkness, I swung my arm up, jamming the arrowhead into Charlie’s throat. Something hot splattered across my forearm.
Release.
Air.
Charlie collapsed onto his side, blood already seeping into his shirt. He gripped the arrow but gave up easily. I think he saw his death coming.
I hoped his spirit would not come back to haunt me.
“Fei-Yen!” James dropped beside me, eyes wide. The edges of his body were blurred and flickering from moving the arrow, but I still felt the tender brush of fingers on my face. “Are you all right?”
I sat up slowly, groaning. I could tell James wanted to help, but he was too weak. “Thank you, James,” I gasped, my voice roughened from the fight.
Was I back in his debt now? I’d lost track.
A click echoed through the room, and my attention snapped upward.
I recognized George Rinehart from the newspaper clipping. He was framed in the doorway, a pistol in his hand and fury playing across his brow.
“Who,” he drawled, “is James?”
My lungs tightened. I searched for an answer. Something truthful and threatening. James is the boy you killed, the ghost who is haunting you even now —
But it seemed Rinehart didn’t care who James was after all. Before I found my voice, he pulled the trigger.
It was the noise that startled me the most, throwing me back onto the floor. The shot was so loud it could have come from inside my head.