Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(58)

“At these auctions, they often circulate one list early to see what people’s reactions are, then print another, final list, with prices higher or lower, based on what they think they can get,” Henry says.

“They’ll hand out the final list right before the auction starts,” Jefferson adds.

“Well, that’s clever,” Mary says.

“There’s my house!” Becky says. “They have no right to sell my house.” She turns toward the crowd and shouts it again. “They have no right to auction off my house!”

“Right doesn’t come into it,” I say.

“It’s whatever they think they can get away with,” Jefferson says. “Speaking of getting away with things . . .”

He tenses, like his hackles are going up, and I follow his gaze.

Two workmen in muddy coats stomp up the platform steps, hauling an auctioneer’s podium. They’re followed by a thin man in a blue-striped shirt and a pair of round spectacles. He wields a gavel, like a judge.

Following the auctioneer is Frank Dilley. The burned half of Dilley’s face shimmers with glycerin, making his sneer gleam like the edge of a knife. His jacket is pulled back to reveal the guns in his holster, one on each hip.

Dilley is the last fellow I care to see, but I’m a little relieved at the same time. If he’s here as Hardwick’s representative, then maybe Hardwick won’t be coming at all. Which means we might be clear of Helena’s second sight for a spell.

The workmen deposit the podium in the center of the stage. Frank Dilley drops a lockbox beside it; it thumps hollowly. It won’t be hollow by the end of the auction. And from here, it’s just a short walk to the bank, where he’ll add it to the rest of Hardwick’s money.

Watching it all makes me wish our practice run had gone a whole heap better. There’s still so much we don’t know, and tonight will be for real.

Dilley twirls the key to the lockbox on his finger, bored as he surveys the crowd. He gaze lands on me. He snaps his fist closed on the key and shoves it into his pocket.

“We’ve been spotted,” I say, remembering that we have as much right to be here as anyone, that of course Hardwick and his people knew we’d come. I shuffle my feet and fight the urge to run.

“At least Miss Russell isn’t here,” Jefferson says, softly, soothingly. His calmness is an anchor as my emotions roil like a storm. “After our failed practice run, we deserve a spot of luck.”

I glance around for Helena one last time, but as far as I can tell, Becky, Mary, and I are the only women here. Still, I discipline my mind, just in case. I will think only of my tiny role today. Concentrate on my outrage. Nothing else.

“Final prices! Final prices!”

A towheaded little boy, not much bigger than Andy, scampers into the crowd from the direction of the printer’s office. He lugs a huge stack of papers and hands them out to everyone he sees. The crowd murmurs at the updated sheets.

Henry grabs a handful. “Well, this is it, then,” he says, distributing them to us. “We should probably split up for better effect.”

Jefferson grins and heads off to the far edge of the crowd, in the opposite direction of Henry.

“This should be interesting,” Mary says, then weaves nearer to the podium.

Becky reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Good luck,” I tell her.

“We don’t need luck.”

The little boy hands the remaining copies to the auctioneer. I watch for his reaction. He stares at the price list, then takes his glasses off, wipes them clean, and stares at the sheets again.

A voice whispers at my side. “Are you ready?”

I look up and find Jim Boisclair. “Ready, willing, and able. You?”

“Always,” he says. “Might even pick up a lot for my general store.”

“Better be careful—I hear they’ll sell the same lot right out from under you.”

“You don’t say?”

The auctioneer places the list on the podium before him. He stares at it one last time. Then he picks up the gavel and bangs. “We’ll begin with the sale of future lots!”

Jim steps forward, lifting his sheet high. “Hold on! They’re auctioning off a lot I already bought and paid for!”

I give it a few seconds to sink in, listening to the growing unease around me. Then I wave my sheet in the air like a battle flag. “They’re trying to rob us! Selling the same property twice!”

From across the crowd, I hear Becky’s voice. “They’re selling my house! Which I own free and clear!”

From another direction, Mary, with a strong Spanish accent: “They’re robbing us! Ladrones!”

The voices of women in peril have gotten everyone’s attention. People in the crowd bow over their lists, studying them with a critical eye.

Henry yells, “Is that my trunk you’re selling?”

Jefferson: “You can’t sell my land without my say-so!”

The auctioneer bangs his gavel, but the crowd is provoked now. The murmur swells to a roar of angry voices. Frank Dilley’s right hand moves to his gun belt.

“I already own this lot on Front Street! I paid for it last week!”

“Lot twenty-two on Fremont belongs to me!”

“What’s going on here?”