By the time we’s finished dinner, I’m in a foul mood. I’s found a mostly level pitch of ground and rolled out my bed. I’s cleaned my Colt and buffed my boots and smacked all the dust possible from my hat. It don’t matter how much I keep my hands busy; Will’s words are ringing strong in my ears.
He’s sitting on the other side of the dying fire, chipper as all can be, spitting dip and acting like he didn’t just accuse me of things I ain’t got no control over to begin with. It ain’t my fault if Jesse’s head’s in the wrong place, if he’s seeing Maggie in me somehow. Hell, I got the notion Jesse didn’t even like me much. He were furious after the ordeal ’long the Agua Fria and could barely look at me in Phoenix. Guess I did lie ’bout everything, and that mighta sat poorly with him, but still.
Jesse sits with his notebook propped ’gainst his knee again, blissfully unaware of my argument with Will. I follow his gaze and reckon he’s sketching Mutt, who’s sprawled out by the warmth of the fire.
As Jesse’s pencil scratches over paper, Waltz tries to convince us not to enter the mountains. He won’t let up. It dawns on me that he might think we’re after his beloved gold, so I tell him ’bout Pa and the Rose Riders.
“Even more reason to not go in there,” he says. “Those mountains are dangerous enough as it is. Last thing you need is a gang of outlaws complicating yer trip.”
“My mind’s made up and ain’t changing,” I says firm.
He sighs and shakes his head. “Then you lot should at least take my donkey. Leave yer horses with me a few days. It ain’t like they’d make it far in them canyons anyway, and my mare could use a little company. And take some of my prospecting equipment too. I noticed you ain’t got much by way of mining gear.”
“I told you, Waltz,” I says. “We ain’t after any gold. I’m just searching out a mine ’cus I know it’s where them Riders will go.”
“Still, you can’t be too prepared. Never know when you’ll need a pickaxe or shovel or a length of rope.”
Jesse closes his notebook, smiling through the smoke pinched between his teeth. “First you nearly shoot us in the river. Now yer fixing to send us off right.”
“You think I’m joking,” Waltz says. “It ain’t safe in them canyons.”
“Perhaps you angered the Mountain Spirits,” Lil offers. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, stitching a tear in the hem of her smock dress. “It is wrong to dig for the yellow iron and destroy Mother Earth’s body.”
“Indian lore ain’t the problem,” Waltz says. “Last time I were in Boulder Canyon, bullets chased me out. I weren’t even doing nothing offensive, just gathering some water. And the shooter coulda got me if he wanted. Blew my wooden bucket to splinters. I scanned the ranges and saw nothing, but when I reached for my shotgun another blast went off and dirt exploded right near my feet. I got the heck outta there after that. If’n that gun could get my bucket and nearly my feet from that distance, I was damn sure he could get my heart.”
“The ghost shooter,” Will says.
“That’s a laughable legend,” Jesse says. “How many times I gotta say it? Spirits can’t pull triggers.”
“Then who was shooting?” Will argues.
Waltz rubs at his gray beard. “Apache, maybe.”
“White Eyes are always blaming us for their troubles,” Lil says. “You were not pulling gold from the earth, and so my people would not have bothered you. One lone man? He is no threat. Sounds like you faced your own kind.”
“Don’t matter who it were,” Waltz counters. “All I’m saying is, it ain’t safe and you gotta be ready for anything. Those shots have been ringing for as long as I’s been coming here—years now—and no one stays in them canyons that long. It ain’t prosperous land—little water, jagged earth. Might not even be human, that shooter. I’m certain these parts are haunted. Ghosts and demons. Spirits unable to rest ’cus of their lust for blood and gold.”
“Superstitious tales,” Jesse says with a shrug.
A gunshot cracks somewhere deep in the mountains, and the skin on my arms goes prickly. As the blast echoes beneath the purple-bruised sky, I start wondering if all them tales ’bout the ghost shooter might hold water. That, or it’s just Waylan Rose, slowly killing off his own crew so there’ll be more riches for him when he gets to the mine.
“Superstitious tales in the Superstition Mountains,” Waltz repeats, nodding. “Sounds fitting to me.”
He retires to bed soon after, leaving us uneasy and anxious. Me, Jesse, and Will, at least. Lil don’t seem fazed one bit. Heck, she’s already dozing with her nose pointed at the stars.
“You mind company?”
I jerk toward Jesse’s voice and find him holding his saddle and bedroll. He nods at the level patch of sandy dirt beside me. I glance through the flames to where he’d been set up originally. Will’s cleaning his pistols and glaring back something fierce.
“What’s wrong with yer side of the fire?” I ask.
“Uneven and rocky,” Jesse says. “Plus, Will’s being a grumpy pest.”
“And here I thought I were the grumpy one. Least that’s what you lot said back at White Tank.”
“Yeah, well, when Will’s mood turns, it goes ’bout as sour as yers.” He drops the saddle and starts rolling out his bed.
I can feel Will’s eyes on us, sense his scowl.
“I didn’t say I wanted company,” I says to Jesse.
But he’s already flopping down and stretching out. “Neither does Will. He insulted me enough times in the last ten minutes to last a month.”
“Jesse, I ain’t sure what yer looking for, but I don’t think I got whatever it is.”
He glances my way so I can see those squinty eyes. “I want a peaceful night’s sleep. Why? What do you want?”
Something goes tight between my ribs.
Just tell him to leave. Tell him he can’t sleep here.
But my mouth’s dry and my tongue feels swollen.
Jesse shrugs and looks back to the sky. “Sleep well, Kate,” he says, then tips his hat down to shield his face.
He don’t see my eyes well up or my lip start to tremble. I ain’t heard those words since Pa died. I were certain I’d never hear ’em again, and now here I am in the middle of Arizona wilderness, an orphan and a loner, feeling not so alone after all. I don’t know what to make of it. Or of the tear that trails down my cheek and settles into the corner of my smile.
Chapter Nineteen
Jacob Waltz sees us off come dawn. We’s got the bulk of our gear loaded up on the burro he’s loaning us, and he promises to take good care of our horses till we return.
“Still think yer crazy,” he says.
“I don’t got much of a choice,” I says. I’m starting to wonder if that’s a guarantee with revenge: yer brain ignores all sorts of logic till you see justice achieved with yer own two eyes.
“Yeah, but these lot do.” Waltz points at the boys. “They don’t got no need to follow you into those cursed canyons.”
“We got an arrangement,” Will says, “but I still think the whole thing’s reckless.”
“More like a deal,” Jesse explains. “Family friends helping each other out.”
“Fine, I won’t pry,” Waltz says. “I can tell when the details ain’t meant for my ears. And what ’bout you, girl?”
“Liluye,” she says.
“Huh?”
“My name is not girl.”