I stay focused on my whiskey. Boss goes on making small talk with the bartender.
I’ve managed to empty half my glass when a couple more gents trickle into the saloon. One of ’em tips his hat at the bartender. “Martin,” he says. That he knows the bartender by name means he’s gotta be a local, someone familiar, but the bartender’s expression’s gone suspicious and cold. His eyes dart between the newcomers and us. The air feels tight suddenly, tense. Like a coiled trap ready to spring.
Boss senses it too.
“I reckon we’ll be on our way.” He pushes a handful of coins ’cross the bar. It covers what we drank and then some.
But the bartender goes for something behind the counter.
Me and Boss reach for our pistols.
“Keep those fingers where I can see ’em,” a voice behind us says, “and turn around nice and slow.”
We pause, carefully move our hands away from our holsters. I turn like I been told, though Boss spins something quick. Flirting with death is his favorite game.
In the mouth of the saloon stands a skinny man with an equally skinny mustache. His jacket falls to his knees, and he has a pistol drawn, aimed right at us. There’s a second man near the poker table, a third not far to my right. Two more hovering by Diaz and Hobbs. They all got their guns out.
“I ain’t following,” Boss says, slow. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The skinny fella pulls his jacket back to reveal a silver badge on his vest. A deputy sheriff. “You boys are under arrest for the robbery of a Southern Pacific train outside Gila Bend on Wednesday.”
“You got the wrong men, partner,” Boss says. “I suggest you move on.”
“And I suggest you skin those pistols and come quietly. Else we’ll be taking dead men from this saloon.”
Boss is as fast as a rattler when he draws, but this is an awful lot of guns, the whole of ’em already pulled and spread through the room. Plus, there’s the bartender behind us, who I’m certain’s drawn a shotgun from below the bar by now and is likely aiming it at our backs. That puts our rivals at six strong. Even on a good day, without a bullet wound to the shoulder of his shooting hand, Boss can’t beat these kinda odds.
“You arrest all innocent men passing through yer town?” he asks.
“You’re innocent like I’m a U.S. Marshal. Besides,” the deputy adds, “we got a witness.”
The doors shove in, and a silhouette enters, falls in line beside the deputy. Then the doors quit swinging and her features come into focus. The front of her dress is stained with blood, her pale hair a disheveled mess, but there’s no mistaking her.
It’s the girl from the train.
Chapter Six
* * *
Charlotte
“It’s them,” I say firmly. “No question.”
I recognized the Rose Kid’s hat the second it glided past the window of Etter’s. The ride to Wickenburg had been rough and backbreaking, so when the coach lurched to a stop and the driver announced we’d have fifteen minutes while the horses were changed, I gladly opted to stretch my legs. I roamed aimlessly, truly feeling the absence of Father for the first time since his passing. It had been a horrid few days leading up to Christmas, the house a flurry of unpleasant conversations regarding funeral arrangements and business propositions, but even since Mother left for Prescott, I’ve yet to be truly alone. The train had been a distraction, same with the coach. But as I stood before a row of tobacco in Etter’s, the scents conjuring up memories of Father sitting in his rocking chair and smoking a pipe while reading the paper, a familiar hat drifted by the window.
Brown felt.
High crown.
Braided leather rope.
I pressed a hand to the glass and peered closer. Familiar jacket, too: plain and tan, hanging to his knees. And that pale blue shirt still stained with sweat. The Rose Kid was riding into town alongside Luther Rose. I bolted from the general store and fetched the deputy in a hurry.
“That one tried to take my earrings,” I say, pointing to the Rose Kid. With his hat and bandanna no longer hiding his features, I can see him clearly. There is a slight resemblance to the wanted posters, but the drawing gives him too many freckles. It doesn’t render him as young as he truly is, nor does it accurately capture the emptiness in his eyes. They are vacant and unfeeling. It’s a kind of hollowness I imagine only a killer can have.
Luther Rose leans nonchalantly against the bar, something akin to a smile on his lips, his jacket hanging open to reveal a pair of twin pistols. Two other men sit at a nearby table, smoking cigarettes. I recognize them from the train as well. They’d been with Rose when he tumbled from the cash car.
Present in this Wickenburg saloon is one half of the Rose Riders. My skin prickles again. Had I known their identities during the train robbery, I don’t think I’d have had the nerve to try to fire on anyone.
“I meant to shoot him,” I say, pointing to the Rose Kid, “but I hit the boss instead. And one of them is the coward who killed the lawman.” I flick a hand toward the table where the other two sit. I don’t even know if it’s true. The lawman had been blocking most of my view, but I only care about watching these men hang.
Mother always says I am her firecracker, that I’m nothing but sugar and sweetness until I’m crossed. It’s admirable, in some regards, she says, but it will make you a foul reporter. I never quite understood what she meant, but I think I do now. Because as I stare at the men before me, I feel something harden in the pit of my stomach. I want them punished for their crimes. I do not care if I’m giving a false statement, and that’s the crux of the problem, really. Nothing is more important than the truth when it comes to journalism. If I cannot confirm something, it should not be printed or lauded as fact, yet here I stand, naming the lawman’s murderer when I cannot back it up.
I press the thought aside. There is something I do know as truthful, and it is that if this man didn’t kill the lawman, he’s still killed others. All the Rose Riders have. These are not men who have made their first offense. They are guilty countless times over, and they are undeserving of mercy.
I do not understand how they can stand here so calmly. Luther Rose is sporting a crooked smile, the men at the table lounge lazily in their chairs, and the Rose Kid—he’s perhaps the most terrifying of them all because he’s completely emotionless. His face is a blank canvas, his eyes empty. A palm rests casually on the butt of his still-holstered pistol.
“Where’re the others?” the deputy asks.
“What others?” Luther Rose answers.
“Don’t play dumb with me.”