In Wickenburg, I switched my name from Ross Henry Tompkins to Henry Ross Thompson. I prospected a few months until I got “lucky.” Then we took the gold we’d had all along and moved to Prescott, claiming henceforth that our money was earned in a strike near Vulture Mine, though we never let on the true sum of our fortune. Not even Abe knows the full story, and he’s a good, honest friend. He let us live in his barn those few months when we pretended to have no money or means to raise a shelter.
Abe might be the only person left I trust in this world, and you’re to stay with him. He’ll be a good father, and he promised me he’d look out for you. Take on his last name and don’t look back to Prescott. Don’t return to the house. Don’t ride after whoever came for me and the journal. Gold makes monsters of men, and they’ll kill you for information, even a letter as simple as this.
Stay with Abe in Wickenburg. No matter how old you are when you read this, stay with Abe.
I love you, and I’m sorry.
I stuff the papers back in the envelope. Stay, he says. Stay!
Like he can command me round when he’s dead and every bit of our past is a lie. My father’s first name is Ross, not Henry. I ain’t even truly a Thompson!
Morris’s words return to me—Waylan Rose had asked after a Ross Henry Tompkins in Goldwaters. I grab my Stetson by the pinch and set it on my head. I wonder what else those bastards know ’bout my pa that I don’t even know myself.
Outside the room I can hear Jesse arguing with Sarah ’bout Roy again. Jesse’s aiming to head to Tucson with Will.
“And the boy?” Sarah says. “Nate?”
“What of him?”
“Yer gonna leave him with me and Jake? This place’s hard enough to keep up when you and Will is here. Jerking the meat and tilling the land and milking the cows and—”
“So an extra set of hands should help,” Jesse says.
“Why’s you so sure Nate’ll stay?”
“’Cus Abe always said once the kid came, he wouldn’t go. He’d be like family. That we were supposed to make room.”
“I can barely feed the mouths already here.”
“Well, which is it, Sarah? You want more people round or less?”
“Yer twisting everything I say.”
“I got cattle to pick up in Tucson either way. If Roy ain’t showing face, Will and I might as well meet Clara while we’re there.”
I’s heard enough. Sarah don’t need to worry ’bout me, ’cus I ain’t staying. There’s an obvious route now. The Rose Riders’ll stick to the Hassayampa, following the trail south toward Phoenix. Then they’ll ride east with the Salt River and into the mountains, where they’ll use Pa’s journal to hunt down the mine. ’Cus now I’m damn near certain it didn’t burn in the fire.
Why’d the bastards have to hang him for it? Couldn’t they have just beat him till he said where the journal were hid and then rode out with the prize? Couldn’t they have left me my father?
Damn gold.
Pa’s right—it does make monsters of men. And women. ’Cus while I don’t want the riches, I want that gang dead, and I ain’t quitting till each of ’em’s as cold as that bastard in the outhouse. I know exactly where they’re headed, and I’ll see that their destination becomes their graves.
I tuck Pa’s note into my pocket and drag the chair to the window, scrambling out without a backwards glance.
Chapter Five
I thought summers were hot in Prescott, but Wickenburg feels like hellfire burning my lungs.
When I ride into town at noon, the sun is high and angry, and with luck no one’s followed me from the Colton ranch. Here, the streets are so hard and bone-white parched, I bet rain would just pool and puddle if it fell. I loosen the kerchief at my neck and twist round in the saddle. I’m sweating from every last pore, and while I’m used to that, I ain’t used to it while pretending to be a boy. The wrap on my chest is growing damper by the moment, and I find myself wishing for a skirt more than ever in my life, if only to feel a bit of moving air on my legs.
The town is bustling. Women drift between shops, attending to errands. The few businessmen I spot are wearing vests and trimmed jackets, some even sporting walking canes. Most of the fellas are miners, though, looking worn out and beaten. I overhear a pair of Chinese men complaining ’bout wages, wondering if it’s better to slave in the mines or to head to Yuma and lay tracks for the Southern Pacific. “Pay will be a fraction of the whites’ either place,” his friend grumbles.
I pass the stage stop, where a few grand-looking coaches—Concords—wait outside. Pa once said them carriages are built so sturdy, they never break down, only wear out. If these came all the way from New Hampshire and still look as pretty and solid as they do now on Wickenburg’s streets, I don’t doubt it.
Nearby is a general store, and I stop to replenish the supplies I had to desert after losing Libby. I splurge on a new shirt too, as the one I’m wearing’s already starting to stink and I ain’t sure when I’ll be able to wash proper. I pay in gold from Pa’s leather pouch.
“Where’d you get this, boy?” the clerk says. His teeth are stained dark.
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what yer asking.”
“Good. High-grading’s a serious offense round here. Could find yerself swinging from the mine’s hanging tree.”
That there’s an actual tree dedicated to the matter don’t sit well with me. I snatch up my purchased effects. “Like I said, it ain’t stolen.”
He just eyes me wary, then spits into the spittoon. The dip dings the side. Of all the nasty, vile habits.
I force a closed-lip smile and leave, feeling his gaze on me the whole way. Makes me wonder if Tom’s pal somehow sent word ahead to Wickenburg and people here are looking for an outlaw who matches my description. Tom’s wide eyes flash before me. He coulda had a family, people relying on him. Somewhere in Walnut Grove, another girl might be without her father. Regret pinches in my stomach.
I hurry for Silver and load her up. As I ride outta town, a cloud billows up at the other end, two riders storming in. They’re moving fast and shouting for someone, urgency on their tongues. I push Silver harder, not wanting to be caught in the middle of a shootout or whatever madness a mining town like Wickenburg tends to see.
When the first bullet is fired, it sounds sharp on my heels, and I realize it were meant for me. I draw my Colt and yank Silver’s reins, but she ain’t fond of turning to face the gunfire. I nearly fall off the saddle as she panics, and when I do get her to quit running, I twist over my shoulder, aiming my pistol.
The two riders chasing me rear up.
“Woah, woah, easy there,” Jesse says.
“You gol-darn idiot! What are you shooting at me for?”
“Well, you weren’t stopping. Didn’t you hear us screaming yer name?”
“What?” I says.
“Nate. We were yelling Nate as we rode in, and you just left like you were deaf.”
’Cus I didn’t hear ’em, not that I’m sure I woulda responded anyway. It ain’t like Nate’s my name.
“Maybe he is deaf,” Will says.
“You know I ain’t.” And to Jesse: “You coulda killed me.”
“It were a warning shot into the sky,” he says, “but I coulda stripped the hat from yer head without nicking you if I wanted.”
“While riding a horse and me bouncing round on mine?” I says. “I doubt it.”
I grab Silver’s reins.
“Hang on.” Jesse pulls up ’longside me. “Where the devil are you going?”
“Why’s it matter?”