The center’s made up of only a few buildings, two of which are saloons. A half-dozen settlers have set up homesteads where the land is level enough to allow it, and they’re the only things that look promising in the community. Most of the vegetation here ain’t higher than my hips, and tilling this earth don’t look like much fun. It’s all sand and bone-dry dirt.
I reckon the place were buzzing once. All these abandoned mining towns were. When prospectors first descended on Arizona Territory, they dug and drilled any which place till they struck gold. Then, no matter how small the lode or weak the vein, they’d file a claim, sell the rights to the supposed “mine” to some wealthy pioneer businessman, and move on in search of a new one. I reckon them rich folk eventually started realizing not all claims are equal, or even worth their time, ’cus sorry excuses for mining towns like Walnut Grove crumpled. The prospectors rolled out. Communities dried up like creek beds, till all that remained were the folks too lost to go elsewhere. The mining towns to survive were the ones with substantial gold, like in Wickenburg, or places like Prescott, held strong by decent farming land and the fact it were our capital once and is again now.
I tie Silver and Libby outside the dingier of Walnut Grove’s two saloons and push through the doors. Inside, there’s a bartender and three patrons: Two wide men and a lady wider than the both of ’em put together. She’s sitting on a piano with her skirt hiked up so high I can see the garter above her knee. One of the men plucks out a song on the ivories while she sings boldly outta tune. I tip my hat at her like the gent I’m pretending to be and walk up to the bar.
“What can I do you for?” the bartender says, pouring himself some whiskey.
“Just a touch of information, I hope.”
He sips his drink and it leaves his handlebar mustache dripping like a cattle dog come outta a river.
“I’s wondering if you could help me find someone in Wickenburg,” I says. “Goes by Abe.” Just in case someone were after Pa, I figure it’s best to be asking things in Walnut Grove, where there ain’t no one of consequence, ’stead of a bustling mining town like Wickenburg.
“Abe?” the bartender parrots. “Josie, you knew an Abe, didn’t ya?”
She stops singing and the man quits plucking keys.
“Abe ain’t worth yer time, boy,” she says. “Have a drink and join us. You know ‘Rose of Alabama’? Play it, Claude. You know that’s my favorite.”
Claude goes back to stroking the keys, and the three of ’em howl like coyotes.
“I ain’t in town for a singsong,” I says. Or more like shouts. “I’m looking for Abe.”
Josie hops from the piano and hits the floorboards with a thunder. By the time she saunters up to me, I’s decided that she could kill me by sitting on me.
“You just might be the prettiest boy to come through town all decade,” she says, eyeing me up and down.
I knew I shoulda roughed myself up more, patted my face with dirt or even given myself a cut or two. I make a note to drop my voice more in the future, speak deeper and lower.
“I reckon I might remember where Abe’s place is for a kiss.” Josie offers me her cheek.
“I reckon you might be overestimating how badly I wanna find him.”
I turn away and the men hoot in the corner. Josie laughs too, deep and rich.
“Aw, heavens, boy. I ain’t been turned down in a coon’s age.”
“I’ll take that drink,” I says to the bartender. He pours it. This is turning into a damned disaster.
“Last I knew, Abe was on the outskirts of Wickenburg,” Josie says. “His place’ll be the first you pass when you ride into town. Claude—Claude! Back to it,” she says. “Oh, brown Rosey”—Claude joins in on the keys—“Rose of Alabamy . . .”
The trio squawk on together.
“Quite a concert you got yerself,” I says to the bartender.
He grunts and downs more whiskey.
“Say, I’m trying to catch up with a friend.”
“Abe. We know.”
“Nah, someone else. He likely rode through yesterday. Has a crew with him and a scar beneath his right eye.”
Claude hits a wrong key and the song crashes to a halt behind me. The bartender’s expression goes so sour, you’d think I pulled my Colt on him. He reaches below the counter and brings out a shotgun as though I have.
“You go on and get,” he says, jabbing the barrel at me.
I hold my hands up. “I ain’t even paid for my drink.”
“It’s no matter. Just get. Yer kind ain’t welcome here.”
“My kind?”
“The Rose Riders,” he says. “Now, you’s got till the count of ten to get outta my place before I fill you with this lead plum.”
He starts counting, and I back out calm as ever. I tip my hat at Josie in the corner, who’s still staring.
“Thanks for the concert, miss,” I says. Then I push out the saloon doors and hop on Silver.
The bartender and the trio step outside to watch me ride out, and even with a shotgun aimed at my back I can’t keep a grin from creeping onto my face.
’Cus my so-called friend came through this way, and now his gang’s got a name.
I’m one step closer to tracking his yellow ass down and sending him to rot in hell.
’Bout five miles outside Walnut Grove, I realize I’m in a bad place.
The sky’s losing its color and there’s another twenty miles or so between me and Wickenburg. I’m gonna have to make camp for the night.
I ride till I find a small gully bordered with shrubs and prickly pear. I lead the horses off the trail and throw both sets of reins round the branches of a short mesquite tree. Then I run back to the trail and look down at the potential camp. Silver’s ears are still visible, but in the dead of night nobody’s gonna be looking this way. And I certainly won’t be visible once I’m lying on my bedroll.
I get a small fire crackling, and as I scarf down some jerky my thoughts drift back to what the bartender said. The Rose Riders.
I think that’s Waylan Rose’s band, notorious for robbing stagecoaches all ’cross New Mexico. As gold strikes started cropping up in Arizona, the posse came west, preying on the lines between mining towns and looking to clean out treasure boxes full of fresh ore. I know it ’cus I overheard Bowers complaining ’bout Rose once, even though Prescott ain’t been booming with prospectors for at least a decade now. I thumb my lip, trying to wager what mighta brought Rose north of his normal routes and to Pa.
I make sure my coals are scattered long before the sky goes dark. As the evening cools, I hunker into my bedroll and watch the bats swooping in the last bit of twilight. The sky’s so big, I swear I could swim right into it.
It’s quiet, but not in the way I’m used to. When Pa were still alive, his voice were the last thing I’d hear every night. “Sleep well, Kate,” he’d say, and tug my bedroom door shut with a creak. Dreaming always seemed easy after that. But without Pa’s words, there’s too much nothing—too much sky and space and endless parched land.
Sleep well, Kate, I tell myself. Sleep well, sleep well, sleep well.
I tip my Stetson down to cover my eyes and wait for sleep to find me.