The hell with her story and the gunslinger that mighta killed Boss’s brother. The hell with all of it. I’m flying north.
I tug the reins, keeping the team on the west side of the courthouse plaza and moving at a fair clip, not fast enough to draw attention, but not exactly dawdling neither. I stare up at the courthouse. Even from the rear, it’s intimidating, towering over most of the surrounding businesses and structures. It’s square in shape, built with bricks and a roofline that boasts a tall steeple with a clock face on each side. I squint as I look into the sun. More than half past ten. The edges of the plaza are fenced off, and there’s ample space for sprawling and strolling, plenty of room for townfolk to come and watch men like myself hang when we’re found guilty of our crimes.
I’d be in that building right now if it weren’t for Crawford springing me free. Crawford saved my hide, and now I’m running from him. It’s easy to feel I owe the gang something when I ain’t with ’em. When I don’t got their dark deeds unfolding before my eyes. When I ain’t subject to Boss’s deceptions and threats.
Stop running, Murphy, I hear him say. Come back, son. We’re missing you.
I do stop, but only to unhitch the team. Putting a palm to their flanks, I find the horse that’s breathing easiest, then use the stagecoach wheel as a leg up so I can mount the steed. With a quick nudge of my heels, we’re moving again.
A block east, the masses are crammed before a grandstand at the depot. Two trains come chugging in, pulled by screaming engines, and the crowd goes wild. Rifles salute. The whole valley seems to echo, and I thank the heavens for this tiny stroke of luck, ’cus no one looks my way as I pass by.
It don’t take more than a few miles for me to realize I’ve made a mistake.
I ain’t had nothing to eat since the prickly pear, and my stomach’s grumbling something fierce, plus my throat’s gone scratchy on account of not drinking much neither. Worse still, I’m so tired I can barely keep my balance on the steed. My thighs burn from the effort.
I ain’t sure who’s more beat—me or the horse.
I shoulda stolen a mare in town, stolen a bite to eat, too, but I were too fearful Vaughn’s shouting might put men on my tail.
This is why I’m a burden, a hindrance, a heel. This is why I ain’t a boss like Luther Rose.
The street that left the city has since turned into little more than a dusty trail cutting ’longside the creek. As I crest a small rise, the horse’s head hanging low, a homestead comes into view. Plain house, barn set nearby, massive mesquite growing out front. I think it’s the first since passing Fort Whipple, which means it matches Vaughn’s story.
Take a peek, Murphy, Boss whispers in my ear. What harm’ll it do if’n this residence ain’t that of the girl? At the very least, go steal yerself a strong mare from the barn and some bread from the kitchen, then move on. And if’n it’s the right place . . . if’n she knows who killed my brother . . .
I guide the horse from the trail and dismount. Walking slow, I approach the house. No one blows me to pieces. Nor does anyone come running when I put a toe to the door and push.
It swings in, creaking.
I draw Vaughn’s Colt from my waistband and step over the threshold. There’s hooks for coats immediately to the left, and some shelves holding books and photo albums. Opposite that is a modest kitchen, and straight ahead, two doors. I find a bedroom behind each, a half-finished cradle and wood shavings on the floor of the smaller. The whole place has fancy pine floorboards, but the kitchen hearth looks twice as weathered as the walls surrounding it. Coals from a morning fire are still putting off a bit of heat. I go ’bout scouring the cabinets, and sweet Lord, there’s bread in the breadbox. I scoff some down like a heathen, find a pitcher half full with water. I drink feverishly, then roll up my sleeves and wash in the dry sink. When I’m somewhat clean and starting to feel a little ill from how quickly I ate, I glance out the front window. It opens onto a nice view of the creek and the plains, the newly laid rail a dark scar as it cuts south into Prescott. The happy rifle salutes must be over, ’cus the world is hushed. If’n I listen real hard, I think I can catch a bit of cheering, but it prolly ain’t nothing but the wind.
It’s almost eerie, how quiet it is here. I ain’t that far from the city, but I’m very much alone.
Solitude, freedom—it’s what I wanted since steering the coach outta Wickenburg, and now it suddenly feels like a curse. I need to keep things this way, but every single person I cross could be a threat—a bounty hunter, a rival. I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to trust no one, least not for a few good years.
I wanna be Reece Murphy again. I wanna use my real name and have that be all right, but those cards ain’t in my future. Reece Murphy is the Rose Kid. They’re one and the same. I’m as vicious and unforgiving as Luther Rose, and at only half his age. That’s the person the world has made me.
I told you yer making a mistake, son. Now come back to where you belong. I got yer horse waiting.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, turning from the window. I pace the small kitchen for a few seconds, minutes, hours. I lose track of time trying to think up a plan. When I come outta a daze, none the wiser on where I should be heading, I find myself facing the wall of books. There’s more of ’em than I’ve ever seen in one home before—several shelves’ full. I run a finger over the spines. Little Women, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Moby-Dick, Around the World in Eighty Days, Pride and Prejudice . . .
I freeze at the end of the row. Stare.
A wedding photograph is on display within a simple wooden frame. The folks who own this claim, prolly. The man’s wearing a pair of Remingtons slung low on his hips, plus a fine suit and tie. He’s got an arm ’round his woman, and he ain’t on a horse or flicking me a coin, but there’s no mistaking him. It’s the cowboy. The very same who gave me that blasted coin. The stranger I ain’t never been able to point out to Boss. Three years on the plains, in and out of every town under the sun, and here he is in this commonplace farmhouse, staring back at me from a wedding photo.
There’s a creak on the stoop.
I spin. The woman from the picture is standing in the doorway, a Winchester rifle aimed at my head. Her dark eyes glare, focused on my face, then suddenly shine with recognition. She knows who I am. The dog at her heel—gray-muzzled and ancient—bares his teeth and snarls.
“You so much as blink too fast,” the woman says, sharpening her aim, “and I will put a bullet between yer eyes.”