The line of clerks nods, solemn as a jury.
“If any of these troublemakers makes another attempt to claim property belonging to the late Mr. Joyner—or anyone else, for that matter—you are authorized to seize them for fraud, and hold them until they can be arrested by the sheriff or his deputies.”
“Does that come from the sheriff?” asks a small, balding clerk. It’s not much defiance, but it’s some defiance, and I appreciate him for it.
But Frank says, “That comes from Mr. Hardwick,” and the clerks nod, even the balding one. We have no champions here.
Frank twirls his gun and slips it into his holster—a fancy trick I’ll have to teach myself if I get the chance. He pulls out a pocket watch and checks the time, then nods to the large gentleman guards. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Hardwick. Hold these folks for a couple minutes and then send them packing. Catch up to us later.”
He slips out the door, and the clerks try their best to look busy. The two guards continue to hold guns on us. Maybe we should just walk out. Would they really shoot us if we did? The fact that Dilley wants us to stay put for a spell is interesting. It means he’s a little afraid of us, of what we might do, and he wants to get away clean.
Becky is furious, but she makes no motion as if to leave. Henry is pale under his maquillage.
“You didn’t see Dilley come in this morning?” Becky asks me.
“No,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”
“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” says Large.
“We were all here before sunup, since we weren’t sure when you’d show,” adds Larger.
“Was about ready to give up, myself,” says Large.
“Frank was too, but the boss told him to wait.”
“So we waited.”
A hard knot settles in my gut. “You knew we were coming,” I say as Becky and Henry exchange an alarmed glance. “How?”
The only people who knew of our plan were in that room last night. I’ll go out on a limb and assume that neither the Major, nor any of Becky’s three children gave us away. And either Becky and Henry are the finest actors in the whole wide west, or they’re just as shocked as I am. Jefferson would never do it. That leaves only Hampton and Tom, and I can’t imagine either of them would be betray us either. Maybe the drunk in the other room eavesdropped through the walls, but we kept our voices low after his outburst.
“I never know how the boss knows what he knows,” says Large.
“He’s Mr. Hardwick,” says Larger with a shrug. “You just assume he knows everybody and everything.”
Large holsters his gun and waves toward the door. “Shoo. Get out of here. Don’t misbehave.”
Larger follows suit. “Go, and sin no more.”
Becky rises slowly and primly. Henry bolts out the door before I can say boo. We catch up to him outside beneath the veranda, where he paces in a tight circle with his hands deep in his pockets.
“Frank wasn’t going to hurt us,” Becky assures him. “He just wanted to scare us.”
“Well, he sure did that like an expert,” Henry says.
“He’s an expert bully,” I tell him. “He has loads of practice. He knows that house belongs to Becky morally, if not legally. Sometimes people are inclined to do the moral thing regardless, and a different clerk might have let us sign those papers.” I’m pretty sure the small balding fellow would have helped us if we’d been lucky enough to get him yesterday instead. “This was meant to scare all the clerks too.”
That changes Henry’s perspective a bit, and he stops circling like an anxious dog on a short leash. “So what do we do next?”
“We can still go buy the house,” I say.
Becky shakes her head. “Now that they know how much I want it, they’ll charge five times the price.”
“Or ten,” I say. “But it might be worth it just to be done with all this.”
“No,” she says firmly. “We’ll wait until the auction and take our chances then. New houses go up so fast here, there’s no reason for someone to overpay for one tiny, disassembled cottage shipped from Tennessee.”
Which is an excellent point. “But I can afford it. Even at ten times the price.”
My words ring hollow, even to myself. Spending that much money at a public auction will attract attention we don’t want. Besides, it feels like giving in. Hardwick has already hinted at shaking us down for more money. The last thing we need is to let him get started at it.
Becky looks offended that I would even suggest such a thing. Her mouth is shaping a reply, but a commotion reaches us from across the plaza—shouts, the sound of a hammer smacking wood, the whinny of a frightened horse. San Francisco is a boisterous place, and I’ve already grown accustomed to ignoring its daily clamor, but Henry says, “That’s Jefferson and Hampton. Looks like they’re in trouble.”
Chapter Seven
I spot Jim first. He sits in the mud in front of the wagon. Blood flows down his scalp and fills one eye. I sprint across the plaza, dodging delivery wagons and shoving my way through clusters of people as Jim tries to stand, slips, falls again.
Beside him, Jefferson is trying to manage the horses, who dance nervously from side to side. A fierce-looking man in a bearskin coat swings a bully club at Jefferson. He dodges in the nick of time, but the man winds up for another swing.
“Hey!” I yell, and the man hesitates.
Three other thugs have Hampton pinned facedown on the ground. Hampton thrashes as one tries to pull a burlap sack over his head. A second straddles his waist as he binds Hampton’s hands with rope, and the third struggles to pin his legs. Mud flies everywhere.
I lower my shoulder and ram the man pinning Hampton’s legs. We both sprawl in the muck.
Hampton kicks out, knocking loose the second man, but not soon enough to keep his hands from being tied. He rolls over onto his knees and tries to rise just as the first man cinches the bag around his neck.
I lunge forward, intending to yank the sack away, but one of the men swings a fist. I dodge left. My feet slip out from under me, and my backside splats into the muck again.
“Lee! Duck!”
Jefferson’s voice. I cover my head and roll. A club glances off my shoulder, scraping a chunk of skin with it.
I come up with a handful of mud and fling it blindly in the direction of my attacker. A splat sound tells me I’ve hit something, so I grab and fling again while struggling to my feet.
A hand grabs my elbow and pulls at me, so I lash out. My fist connects with something solid and I hear an oof from Jefferson.
“Sorry!” I wipe the mud from my face with the back of my forearm. Jefferson grabs my waist and yanks me back just in time to avoid a swing from Bearcoat’s club.
“Let’s go!” someone yells to Bearcoat before he can try again.
Hampton is now in the back of an empty dung cart, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. The man in the cart seat gestures at Bearcoat to follow.
But Bearcoat and his friends won’t be budged. They’re frontiersmen. Bullies for hire. I recognize the type from the hills back home.