Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(24)

I spin around. “Jim! Are you all right?”

He’s standing, leaning against the wagon, hand pressed against his temple, while Henry calms the horses.

“I’ll be fine as soon as my head clears,” he says.

I reach under the seat and peel the blanket off my daddy’s Hawken rifle.

“What are you doing?” asks Jefferson.

“I’m going to find out where they’re taking Hampton. He might be hurt.”

“I’m not sure that’s a smart—”

I don’t hear the rest, because I’m already off and running.

A mood’s taken hold of me, the same way fire takes hold of grease. First came all the reminders of my uncle and the horrible things done in his mine. Then Frank Dilley and his bullies held guns to our heads to scare Becky and keep her from what’s rightfully hers. Now this. It’s gone too far. I’m not sure what I aim to do about it yet, but it’s not fair. And I can’t lose another friend like I lost Martin and Therese.

Girl, you’ll learn. Life’s not fair, Hardwick said.

Well, maybe I aim to make it fairer.

I turn the corner onto Clay Street and head downslope toward the bay. The coonskin cap bobs up and down a block or so ahead. Beside him is Bearcoat. They’re walking fast, but by the time they turn right on Battery Street, I’m less than half a block behind.

Slave catchers look the same whether they’re in the woods of Georgia or the hills of San Francisco—covered in fur, well armed, mean as snakes. To them, a person is just another animal to hunt. Well, I can hunt too.

Battery Street is one of those waterfronts being filled in. To my left, a ship has been grounded and transformed into a saloon. An awning flaps at the entrance, and above it, the ship’s masts have been replaced by a second story, built right on top of the deck. Across from the saloon to my right is an old brig still moored in water, but who knows for how long.

A sign hangs on the side of the brig: SAN FRANCISCO JAIL.

The empty cart is parked at the water’s edge. Hampton kneels on the ground beside it, the driver looming over him. A small cluster of familiar figures surrounds them, and my steps falter.

Hardwick and Frank Dilley are conferring with the slave catchers. Miss Russell, Hardwick’s “associate” from the law offices, presides over them all, wearing a dress of deep violet and fine lace.

Dilley searches Hampton’s pockets and removes his precious letter, while Hardwick counts out gold coins to the roughnecks.

The driver shoves Hampton into a waiting boat and starts rowing him out to the brig.

I’m all alone with no plan. But somehow I have to get that letter. It’s the only proof we have that Hampton is a free man.

I take a deep breath and stride forward, hefting my rifle, trying to appear more certain of myself than I feel. My gun isn’t loaded, but no one needs to know that.

Helena Russell is the first to notice me. She leans over and whispers to Hardwick, who pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. He nods, raising an eyebrow as if impressed. Somewhere in the city, church bells ring out the hour. Frank Dilley gives me a side-eye, then sticks a cheap cigar in his mouth and strikes a match to light it.

I stop about twenty feet away. Jefferson runs up behind me, out of breath. Part of me wishes he hadn’t followed, because I have no idea what I’m about to get myself into, but I’m glad to have him at my side just the same.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Hardwick?” I shout.

“I might ask you the same thing, Miss Westfall.”

“I’m checking on the welfare of a friend.”

“That’s very gentlewomanly of you. I’m upholding the laws of the land by paying professionals with a specific set of skills to locate and apprehend a runaway slave. I’ll arrange for his transportation back to Arkansas and collect a hefty fee. The law and profit go hand in hand.”

“He’s no runaway, and you know it. You were there when he showed us his freedom papers.”

“These papers?” says Frank Dilley. He waves the envelope he just took from Hampton, lifts it toward the glowing end of his cigar.

I whip up my rifle and aim it at his head. Dilley’s free hand reaches for the gun at his holster.

“I don’t miss,” I tell him. “Especially not at this range, which you well know. You want to bet your life that you can draw faster than I can pull a trigger, you just go ahead.”

Dilley’s face goes white, but he doesn’t draw.

“Do you want us to take care of this?” Bearcoat offers, tapping Hardwick on the arm. The other two roughnecks look like they’re itching for a fight as well.

“There’s no need for violence,” Hardwick tells them. “You’ve been paid. The Apollo saloon is just across the street. I suggest you repair to that location, acquire something refreshing, and enjoy the show.”

Bearskin shrugs, and the three men peel off to the saloon. They join the crowd of drinkers who have come outside to watch the commotion.

“It’s wrong to make a show out of someone’s freedom,” I say. “You still there, Jefferson?”

“Yeah,” he says behind me. His voice is quiet and very controlled.

“Would you please walk over to Mr. Dilley and take that letter from him? And make sure it’s Hampton’s letter.”