He pushes up onto his elbows, bringing his face into view. “Why you wanna be a journalist, Vaughn? They don’t even print the facts, them reporters. You might as well just write novels.”
That does it. I snap my journal closed around my pencil, marking my place. “That folks can print lies in the paper, and those words are then read as fact, is precisely what makes responsible journalism so important! One could argue it is the most important form of writing, and I’d have thought you’d agree. If all you say about your history is true, the papers have misrepresented you countless times.”
“That a family trade, reporting? I got your relatives to thank for it?”
“No. My mother is a midwife and my father was a businessman.”
“Was?”
“He passed last week.”
The color drains from his face. “Oh.”
“I don’t want to talk about this. Honestly, I don’t want to talk at all.” I place my journal on the nightstand and my sleeve pulls up with the motion, revealing the still-chafed skin from when I’d been bound in the stagecoach.
“I’m sorry ’bout that,” the Rose Kid says, his eyes lingering on my wrist.
“Sorry enough to help me with my uncle?”
He blows out a sigh. “It’s possible yer uncle ain’t gonna fold from a simple threat,” he says. “It could take more—possibly a bullet—and I ain’t the one to do it. I got a few killings left in me, only they’re already saved for Boss and his boys. That’s it. I gotta draw my line in the sand. You get that—right, Vaughn? You understand?”
He meets my gaze and holds it. There is sincerity in his eyes. I myself have preached about the necessity of change, insisted that he couldn’t run from his past forever, yet this answer infuriates, because I do understand. I see his argument, and even still, I’m left confused. The Rose Kid was supposed to have no morals. He was supposed to be easy to hate.
I roll away, putting my back to him.
The room is swallowed in darkness a moment later when he douses the lantern.
There is no denying it: I am on my own. I cannot count on him or Kate or Jesse, so I will find my own gunslinger. Tomorrow at dawn, before anyone wakes, I’m leaving.
Chapter Thirty
* * *
Charlotte
I wind out of the mountains come early morning. The trail did not diverge, and for that I am grateful, because it was rather faded and difficult to follow to begin with and the weak light of early dawn certainly didn’t help. As I nudge the sorrel out of the tree cover, the land bucks and heaves, unfolding toward a valley. It is a clear day, with good visibility, and I can see the railway in the distance, like a line of charcoal drawn across the dust-colored earth. The P&AC runs north to south, and based on the position of the sun, I’m well aware of my location. This must be Chino Valley before me. I’ll find Prescott to the south.
Even on the horse, it takes a little while to pick my way down the shrub-and cacti-strewn slope, and when I finally reach the tracks, I gaze back up the hill. The trail to the Coltons’ is just barely visible, a faint white scratch among the trees. It could be nothing but washout from rain or snowmelt. No one would expect a homestead here. There is nothing to be seen for miles.
I pause to make a small marker of stones beside one of the rail ties. If all goes well in town, I will not be returning to the Coltons’, but nothing has unfolded as I’ve imagined thus far, and it seems prudent to take precautions.
A wind sweeps across the valley, tugging at my jacket, urging me on.
I turn the sorrel north and heel her. As we fly, I picture the P&AC rails plans I’ve seen spread over Father’s desk. Seventy-three miles of standard gauge line, starting up north at the Seligman depot along the Atlantic Pacific and cutting south into Prescott. If I’ve determined my position correctly, it will not be a short ride to Banghart’s, but it remains too risky to search for a gunslinger in the capital.
The tracks blur to my right.
The valley stretches out ahead.
And I fly like a bullet out of a barrel, following the rails straight and true.
Banghart’s is smaller than I expected. The depot and hotel are easily the most prominent buildings, and the street is eerily quiet despite it being around noontime. The town—if it can even be called that—barely appears populated.
I visit the small general store and approach the clerk. “I’m looking for a hired gun,” I say, cutting straight to the point. “Are there any men in town looking for work?”
The clerk squints at me, then glances outside, past my sorrel at the hitching post and toward the building across the way.
“You could try Parker at the hotel. He’s always looking to take on odd jobs. Tell him Norman sent you.”
The hotel is not a grand establishment, but for the likes of the town, I’m rather impressed. The construction is well kept up and the carpet in the foyer is vibrant and clean, putting the one in the Wickenburg boarding house to shame.
“I’m looking for Parker,” I announce to an elderly woman reading the paper behind the front desk.
“’Bout?”
“A job. Norman sent me.”
She looks up from her reading, and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she finds the pistol belt slung at my hips. It’s cinched down to the tightest buckle hole and still sags a bit, but I’d borrowed it from the Coltons nonetheless. It was hanging with their coats—perhaps the very belt Kate said she can no longer easily wear while pregnant—and it seemed a more convenient way to carry Father’s Colt than the bedsheet sack I’d fashioned before leaving Prescott.
“Parker deals with some unsavory types and asks everyone to leave their effects with me,” the woman says.
I don’t like it, but I’m desperate. I unlatch the belt and place it on her desk.
“You can wait in his office—first door on the left.” She motions down the hall. “And make sure to close the door to keep the heat in. I’ll go find Parker.”
The office is windowless but cozy. A fire crackles behind a simple writing desk, and the dark green walls are covered in framed newspaper clippings. I shut the door as instructed and examine a few of the pieces. Parker is a bounty hunter, according to the stories. The most recent pictures show an elderly man—perhaps nearing seventy—but his experience can’t be ignored. There are at least a dozen outlaws whose capture he has immortalized on his wall.
I can barely believe my luck. I’m desperate enough to hire just about anyone claiming skill with a pistol, and here I’ve found a bona fide bounty hunter. That’s sure to strike fear in Uncle Gerald, have him see reason. If Parker agrees to the task, he could be in Prescott by tonight, Uncle Gerald singing a new tune by morning.
I move along the wall, reading piece after piece. Just beside the door, I catch voices in the hall.
“A girl?” a man says. “That ain’t my typical client. Think it could be Gerald’s niece?”
I freeze, my heart thrumming in my chest.
“Maybe,” replies the woman I spoke with earlier. “Go on and question her.”