“I didn’t take that gold. I swear it was just chance.”
“I know,” I says. “I believed you the first time you said so.”
He looks over his shoulder at the house. Waltz is standing there, watching, but not in an encroaching way. More like a curious cat.
“When do you want to leave? It’s a three-day ride back to civilization. Two, maybe, if we really push.”
Jesse frowns. “I gotta ride for Tucson. Clara might still be there, plus I gotta make amends with Benny. Sarah’ll be furious if I come home having lost Will and one of our sources of income. Think you could ride ahead and tell her where I’m at? I want her to know I’m setting things right, that there ain’t a need to worry ’bout nothing else.”
I don’t point out that there’s prolly enough gold between us for him never to have to run cattle again. But maybe he wants to stay busy, try to live as normal a life as possible. Spending gold is what caught up with Pa, after all.
But even still, that ain’t what bothers me most. It’s the favor, his request that I go see Sarah.
“You don’t think it’ll be better to tell her all this yerself? I can stay a few days in Phoenix till you catch up.”
“I ain’t sure how long things’ll take with Benny. And I don’t want you waiting. Go see Sarah. Have a proper bath and sleep beneath a roof. You deserve it.”
“Yeah. All right,” I says. “I’ll leave right away.”
“Thank you, Kate. Thank you.” He grabs my face and gives me the quickest peck of a kiss that be. For once, my knees don’t quake. “Take that gold from the saddlebags too,” he adds. “It’s yers after all.”
He turns back for the house without another word.
I stand there a minute, dazed, not quite certain what happened. This weren’t how I envisioned it—me riding out alone. I saw us together: me and Jesse, our horses and Mutt. Why’s he think it a good idea for me to break such horrid news to Sarah? And why can’t I just wait for him in Phoenix? I’d do it, gladly.
Maybe he don’t want me round. Maybe I were a crutch to lean on when he first lost his brother. We were nothing before Will got taken—just bickering and chiding, a constant quarrel. What did I really think were happening? I was after justice and Jesse needed a distraction. He even admitted as much. We used each other for a little to get what we needed. Now things go back to usual.
God, I am so thick. I am so blind.
Silver nickers and I jolt to action. I saddle her in a hurry, slip the bridle over her head. I load up my gear and then stare at Rose’s burros a moment. In the end, I take one of the saddlebags, leaving the rest for Jesse and Waltz to fight over.
The guilt hits me a second time. I wanted to walk away from all this: the journal and the gold and the greed. But I also got a burned house waiting back in Prescott, and no means to raise a new one. I reckon enough to get me by, set me up for the coming years, ain’t nothing harmful.
As I go to pack the journal, something catches my eye that I ain’t noticed before: a smudgy name, scrawled into the bottom corner of the very first page.
Miguel Peralta.
It’s his journal, the Mexican Liluye told us ’bout. The note Pa left in Wickenburg mentioned how he’d found the journal near the remains of humans and burros. It must’ve been lying there all those years, just waiting to be discovered since Lil’s tribe ran the Peraltas out.
“So you found it, eh?”
I snap the journal shut at the sound of Waltz’s voice. “Huh?”
The miner nods at the saddlebags as I wrap the journal back up in its cord. “Gold,” he says. “You found it.”
“Up on the eastern ridge of a potholed ravine running north and south. There was a footpath you could see from the mine, but you couldn’t see the mine from the footpath.”
“The old military trail branching off Needle Canyon?” Waltz says.
“Could be.”
He shakes his head. “I’s been down that way near a dozen times.”
“It’d be easy to miss. I reckon you could walk within a few feet of them caches or the mine and never even spot ’em.”
I run a hand over the front of the journal. Suddenly, I don’t want to pack it. I wanna throw it back among the canyons, bury it with the blood and skeletons it knows so well.
“Hey, Waltz. You gonna head back in there next season?” I jerk my head toward the Superstitions.
“Did you take care of them ghosts done shooting everybody?”
“Yeah, I took care of ’em.”
“Then I reckon I might.”
“In that case, you should prolly have this.” I hand over the journal. “It’s got all the maps you’ll need.”
His gray brows rise. “You don’t want it?”
“I ain’t going back there, not ever. I’m going forward. I’m moving on.”
He shrugs and accepts the journal. “Thanks, kid.”
“Just be careful,” I says. “It’s angry land, sacred land. Gold ain’t to be tampered with.”
But he’s already got his nose buried in the pages, flipping faster than reading allows.
I shake my head and mount Silver, then kick her into a gallop. Mutt runs with me awhile, and when I come to a bow where the shoreline curves behind a low wall of rock, I can’t help myself; I pause to look back at the shanty.
Jesse is standing in the doorway, raising his hat in farewell.
I take mine off and do the same.
Then I turn round and fly.
Chapter Thirty-One
I ridehard to Phoenix and pause only to visit the sheriff. A short, stocky Mexican deputy by the name of Garfias smirks something doubtful when I inform him Waylan Rose and his boys are dead.
“The Rose Riders?” He laughs. “All of ’em?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you ain’t getting a bounty without the bodies.”
“There’s one in an outhouse in Prescott, though I bet someone’s moved that corpse by now. Then a couple ’long the Agua Fria, and another ’long the Salt. The rest, plus Waylan Rose hisself, are scattered in the Superstition Mountains.”
“That’s prime Apache territory,” Garfias says, his cigarette near tumbling from his lips. “Ain’t no one gonna scour that land for their bodies.”
“No bother,” I says, standing. “I just wanted to inform the law they’re dead and cold.”
“You still ain’t getting a bounty.”
“I figured as much. Good day, mister.” I tip my Stetson at him and leave without a backwards glance. I can still feel his eyes staring at me, puzzled, as I step onto the street.
The ride to the Colton ranch feels shorter than the ride south, but twice as lonely.
The weather cooperates the whole way—hot as hell, but no dust storms—and soon I’m back ’long the Hassa-yampa, following those dry creek beds into Wickenburg.