Unless we have a corroborating witness. Someone else who saw the operation? Clara went cold. There was one. Sarah, but she is dead.
Anyone else? Thorne asked. Anyone who worked at the Looking Glass? Clara thought back to the smoke and the noise of the saloon. Most of the girls drifted like tumble weeds.
But there was one, Molly. The girl who did the laundry in the back. Molly, who had been there the night Sarah was shot. "There is Molly," Clara said slowly. "I saw her here in town just as we rode in.
She was carrying a basket behind the hotel." "Find her," Thorne said. "Get her to swear to an affidavit. If I have two witnesses, I can get a subpoena for Pike's private records." They found Molly an hour later, behind a boarding house on the east side of town.
She was pinning wet sheets to a line. her hands red and swollen from the lie soap. When she saw Clara, she dropped the clothes pin basket in the mud. "No," Molly whispered, backing up until she hit the brick wall. "No, Clara, I ain't part of it, Molly. Please," Clara said, stepping over a puddle.
"I just need you to tell the truth about what happened to Sarah." "About the men Pike sent. He will kill me," Molly said, her eyes wide and terrified. He has eyes everywhere, Clara. Even here, especially here.
He is killing us anyway. Clara said, "He is taking the land. He is burning people out. If we do not stop him, there will be nowhere left to run." Molly looked at Eli, who stood at the alley entrance, watching the street.
She looked back at Clara. "You got out. You got a husband, and I am fighting to keep him." Clara said, "Please." Molly let out a shuddering breath.
I finish my shift at 6:00. I will come to the lawyer's office, but then I'm getting on a train west. I won't stay. Thank you, Clara said. They walked back toward the main street, a fragile hope growing in Clara's chest.
It was shattered before they reached the corner. A man wearing a sheriff's badge stepped out of the barber shop, flanked by two deputies. It was not the Red Rock Sheriff. This was a local man. But the piece of paper in his hand was fresh.
Clara Vale? The deputy asked. Mrs. Conincaid? Eli corrected stepping in front of her.
I have a warrant here for a Clara Vale. The deputy said, ignoring Eli. Issued out of Red Rock this morning. Wired over the telegraph. Charge is grand lararseny.
Theft of a diamond brooch from a Mr. Silus Vance. That is a lie, Clara said, her voice shaking. I have never stolen anything. You can tell it to the judge, the deputy said, reaching for her arm.
Eli's hand dropped to his gun. The air in the street froze. The two deputies behind the leader put their hands on their own weapons. Passers by scrambled out of the way. "Eli, no," Clara said.
"They are framing you," Eli said, his eyes fixed on the deputy. If they take you, you will never make it to the hearing. If you draw that gun, the deputy said, we will shoot you down right here. And then she hangs for sure. Eli stood on the precipice.
His entire body screamed to fight. He could draw. He was fast enough. He could kill this man. But then what?
They would be outlaws. They would be hunted for the rest of their lives. He would become the violence he feared. Eli," Clara said sharply. She stepped out from behind him.
She put her hand on his chest, right over his heart. Do not do it. I will not run. I will not give them the satisfaction. She looked at the deputy.
I am innocent. I will face the magistrate. The deputy smirked and slapped handcuffs on her wrists. Right this way, honey. The jail cell was cold and smelled of vomit.
Eli sat on the bench outside the bars, refusing to leave. He had sent a runner for Thorne. When the lawyer arrived, he looked grim. "They are moving fast. They want a preliminary hearing now.
They want to discredit her before she can testify against Pike." "Can you stop it?" Eli asked. "I can represent her." Thorne said.
"But the judge, Judge Athetherton, is a hard man. He hates vice." The courtroom was packed. Word had spread that a fallen woman was on trial. Men packed the gallery, chewing tobacco and whispering when Clara was led in, the shackles clinking.
A ripple of laughter went through the room. She wore her travel stained gray dress. She held her head up, but her face was burning. She felt naked. Every stare felt like a hand grabbing at her.
The prosecutor was a slick man from Denver, paid for by the syndicate. He did not ask about the brooch. He asked about her past. "Is it true, Miss Vale?" he paced in front of the witness stand.
"That you worked at the Looking Glass Saloon." "Yes," Clara said. Her voice was a whisper. "Speak up," the judge barked. "Yes," Clara said louder.
"And what were your duties there?" the prosecutor sneered. "Did they involve hospitality?" I serve drinks, Clara said. And for a price, did you offer other comforts?
Objection. Thorne stood up. Relevance. It goes to character. Your honor.
The prosecutor smiled. A woman who sells herself will certainly sell a lie. The gallery laughed. The sound crashed over Clara like a wave. She gripped the rail of the stand.