Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(23)

“No,” she says firmly. “We’ll wait until the auction and take our chances then. New houses go up so fast here, there’s no reason for someone to overpay for one tiny, disassembled cottage shipped from Tennessee.”

Which is an excellent point. “But I can afford it. Even at ten times the price.”

My words ring hollow, even to myself. Spending that much money at a public auction will attract attention we don’t want. Besides, it feels like giving in. Hardwick has already hinted at shaking us down for more money. The last thing we need is to let him get started at it.

Becky looks offended that I would even suggest such a thing. Her mouth is shaping a reply, but a commotion reaches us from across the plaza—shouts, the sound of a hammer smacking wood, the whinny of a frightened horse. San Francisco is a boisterous place, and I’ve already grown accustomed to ignoring its daily clamor, but Henry says, “That’s Jefferson and Hampton. Looks like they’re in trouble.”





Chapter Seven


I spot Jim first. He sits in the mud in front of the wagon. Blood flows down his scalp and fills one eye. I sprint across the plaza, dodging delivery wagons and shoving my way through clusters of people as Jim tries to stand, slips, falls again.

Beside him, Jefferson is trying to manage the horses, who dance nervously from side to side. A fierce-looking man in a bearskin coat swings a bully club at Jefferson. He dodges in the nick of time, but the man winds up for another swing.

“Hey!” I yell, and the man hesitates.

Three other thugs have Hampton pinned facedown on the ground. Hampton thrashes as one tries to pull a burlap sack over his head. A second straddles his waist as he binds Hampton’s hands with rope, and the third struggles to pin his legs. Mud flies everywhere.

I lower my shoulder and ram the man pinning Hampton’s legs. We both sprawl in the muck.

Hampton kicks out, knocking loose the second man, but not soon enough to keep his hands from being tied. He rolls over onto his knees and tries to rise just as the first man cinches the bag around his neck.

I lunge forward, intending to yank the sack away, but one of the men swings a fist. I dodge left. My feet slip out from under me, and my backside splats into the muck again.

“Lee! Duck!”

Jefferson’s voice. I cover my head and roll. A club glances off my shoulder, scraping a chunk of skin with it.

I come up with a handful of mud and fling it blindly in the direction of my attacker. A splat sound tells me I’ve hit something, so I grab and fling again while struggling to my feet.

A hand grabs my elbow and pulls at me, so I lash out. My fist connects with something solid and I hear an oof from Jefferson.

“Sorry!” I wipe the mud from my face with the back of my forearm. Jefferson grabs my waist and yanks me back just in time to avoid a swing from Bearcoat’s club.

“Let’s go!” someone yells to Bearcoat before he can try again.

Hampton is now in the back of an empty dung cart, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. The man in the cart seat gestures at Bearcoat to follow.

But Bearcoat and his friends won’t be budged. They’re frontiersmen. Bullies for hire. I recognize the type from the hills back home.

“That one’s a girl,” says one, like it’s the worst thing a person can be.

“She rung my bell,” says another, picking up a coonskin cap from the mud. He’s the one I knocked off Hampton. “She should pay, girl or not.”

Bearcoat still holds the club out in front of him, daring Jefferson or me to take a step. “That’s up to them.”

Becky and Henry arrive at that moment. “I demand to know what’s going on here,” Becky says. “Why have you attacked my companions?”

“This ain’t no business of yours,” Bearcoat says, jabbing the club in her direction.

“The hell it isn’t,” I say, taking a step forward. Jefferson grabs at me, but I shrug him off. “You’re kidnapping our friend.”

“Ain’t no kidnapping,” says Bearcoat. “Got a notice from an Arkansas paper saying he’s a runaway slave. Perfectly legal for us to catch him, return him to his proper owner.”

“He’s a free man,” Jim says, and I cast a glace over my shoulder to see him rising to his feet and wicking mud from his trousers. His gaze is unfocused, and he teeters when he moves.

“The Bledsoe family says otherwise. Says he ran away last summer.”

Hampton’s cart is rolling out of sight, beyond the Parker House.

“You are mistaken,” Becky tells the three roughnecks. “He has his freedom papers. In any case, California is going to be a free state. There’s no slavery here.”

Buckskin snarls at her. “Where you from?”

“Tennessee, but—”

“I thought I could hear God’s country in your voice, ma’am, but you are on the wrong side here.”

“I’m on the side of my friends. I’m on the side of doing the right thing. Where are you taking Hampton?”

“Don’t answer that,” Bearcoat says. He checks over his shoulder and confirms that the cart is long gone. “Let’s collect our bounty and be done. It’s already been more trouble than it’s worth.”

The three men back away slowly, then turn and hurry.