“Therisks?” I repeat, also not for the first time. “He was conned into buying a worthless piece of land in exchange for a sizeable down payment and an outrageous yearly sum. Those men knew full well he would never be able to produce enough to pay them back. And then when he couldn’t, they—”
“Young lady.” The sheriff holds up a hand to silence me. “What my son is getting at is that your father made a bargain, and regardless of if he made it with a devil, his inability to keep his side will not be as easily overlooked here as it may have been back east. Out here, men take issue with such things, and your father is not the only one to have learned that the hard way. Why, the sheer number of settlers we’ve had turn back in the last yearalone…”
“For the best,” Zeke finishes for him, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he shakes his head sadly. “Not everyone has what it takes to survive out here. A shame that some don’t come to that conclusion before it’s too late.”
Too late.He’s talking about my father’s fate, but I know he would just as easily assign it to mine. Just as easily deem ittoo latefor me, and I’m more furious than hurt that they’re proving my mother right.They really don’t care.
“So that’s it, then?” I ask when I trust my voice again. “He deserved what was coming to him so the man who killed him deserves no punishment?” There’s a long pause, neither man offering a rebuttal, so I offer one instead. “I wonder if the U.S. Marshals would feel the same way. Perhaps if I were to write to the Attorney General? Let him know how things are being handledout here?”
Zeke’s mouth presses into a thin line, but it’s his father who blusters out, “Miss, I was elected by the people of Preston. I do not answer to U.S. Marshals.”
“They might disagree. After what happened in Tombstone,” I press, repeating almost word for word what I had read in adiscarded newspaper earlier this week and tucked away for such an occasion. “They’re promising a return to order. To make things safer.”
He laughs bitterly, the sound clawing at any optimism I might have felt in my latest attempt to inspire action. “To make things safer for their railroad, perhaps. For their own business interests to flourish without them ever having to step a toe into this territory. Miss, if you are under the impression that a marshal is going to come in here and tell me how to handle things inmytown simply because you’ve written them a letter about your papa, you are sorely mistaken.” He reaches for the tin of tobacco on his desk, angrily shoving a large wad into his cheek. “I can tell you from tremendous personal experience that, should you write to them for assistance, you will be months waiting on a reply.Ifthey reply at all. Isn’t that right, son? Have you ever received an answer to the letters we sent last year?”
Zeke shakes his head before looking out the window again, but I barely register his disinterest. Too busy fighting the desolation I feel at even the suggestion of moremonthsspent waiting, and, judging by the look on the sheriff’s face, he knows it.
“I have tried to be patient with you on this, but I need you to understand.” He gestures behind me toward the crowded wall of wanted posters vying for attention near the door. Stagecoach robbers. Cattle rustlers. Serial murderers. Dozens of men with prices on their heads but none of them the one I want found.
“It’s not that your father doesn’t deserve justice, it’s simply that it’s in short supply. My son’s right. You belong back with your kin. During times like this, family is so comforting.”
A nearly hysterical laugh almost escapes me, and all I can think is that I’m certain he wouldn’t say so if he’d had the opportunity to meet mine. “There has to be something else.”
“I’m afraid not. At least, not without the money for a reward or for a bounty hunter—”
Money… It always comes back to money.The only real power, the only true separation between people. It’s money, and whether or not you have it. And I never have.
“How much?” I say, even as the rational part of my brain wonders why I am even bothering to ask. “How much would it take?”
“To get someone to pick up your job?” The sheriff chews it over along with the tobacco, pausing to spit onto the floor and making my stomach turn before he answers, “At least a hundred dollars. Half when they accept. Half when it’s done.”
A hundred dollars.Might as well be a thousand, but I still find myself saying, “I’ll get it.”
“Even if you were to come up with the wages”—he courteously leaves off thesomehow—“there’s still no guarantee someone will want the job. This country is bigger and more perilous than you can possibly imagine. And your trail’s gone cold.”
I bite my tongue to keep myself from asking where he thinks the guilt for that might lie. “How long would it take you to find someone?”
“Depends. How long would it take you to pull together the money?”
“I have some savings,” I reply, skirting the question, and I see the way the sheriff looks to his son. When I follow his gaze, Zeke sighs and looks at the ground.
“If that’s the way you’d prefer to proceed…” he says.
“It is.” I stand at last, trying to escape before the last of my false bravado can abandon me completely. “I do appreciate your assistance. I’ll get the money together and—”
“Young lady.” The sheriff gets up, too, before I can make it to the door. “I want you to think long and hard before you agree to this. These bounty hunters that Zeke works with are often as dangerous as the men they’re tracking, and I’d hate to see you get involved in something that you’ll come to regret. Don’t makeyour father’s same mistakes.”
My chest tightens, the image of him lying in the street flashing through my mind. “I understand.”
“You understand, too, then, that you’ll likely be sending someone out to kill a man regardless of if you want him brought in alive? I know that’s an ugly thing for a woman to have to consider, but I’ve been in this position long enough to know that if they bring him back at all, it’ll be for the bounty and a burial. Not for a trial.”
“I understand,” I say again, giving him a tight smile. “Thank you, Sheriff. Honestly, it would come as a relief.” He looks surprised, but his expression sours again when I say before stepping out the door, “I’m afraid that I’ve already experienced as much of this town’s legal system as I can stand.”
I use my hand to shield my eyes from the sun before stepping out into the street, careful to dodge the number of pedestrians, horses, and wagons who are making their way just as I am. Once across, I climb up onto the weathered sidewalk planks and head east, considering again the possibility of scraping together a hundred dollars to afford a hired gun when I can’t even scrape together enough to afford a proper meal.
Since the night I ran away, I have prided myself on the fact that I have never once asked for charity. Nor have I given anyone less than everything I have in whatever odd work they throw my way before shooing me off. In a town this small, it’s not just the sheriff who tends to take care of his own, and it has been made clear to me again and again that I am not theirown. I am a stranger, one who is beginning to look more ghost than girl.
A passing glance at my reflection in the general store front window reveals no color left in my cheeks. A dullness to my hair. Frayed patches on a worn-out brown dress that hangs on mejust as well as an empty flour sack. Still, I walk into the store with what I hope is an appeasing smile fixed on my face, my head bent slightly and my hands clasped as soon as I’m in the door so as not to appear as impertinent as my mother always believed me to be. Not sure what difference it makes, though, when people don’t even bother to look.