Black Creek had a way of swallowing people whole.
Dust lived in its streets during summer and mud replaced it in autumn. Both clung to everything with equal determination. Boots, horses, wagon wheels, whiskey bottles, windows, skirts, and the cracked signs hanging above buildings with names far grander than the structures beneath them.
HOTEL.
BANK.
GENERAL STORE.
SHERIFF.
On that gray October morning in 1887, nearly half the town had gathered in front of Pike's Trading Post.
They had not come to buy supplies.
They had come to laugh.
A rough wooden wagon stood in the middle of the muddy street. Its boards were scarred, one wheel leaned slightly outward, and a tired bay horse remained hitched at the front.
On the back edge of the wagon sat a woman.
A loose beige cloth covered her entire head and face.
It fell past her shoulders, hiding everything except the outline of her body beneath a dusty-blue dress.
Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.
She had not moved for nearly fifteen minutes.
“Ten dollars!”
The shout came from a drunken ranch hand leaning against the hitching rail.
“Five!”
Someone else yelled.
A third man laughed.
“Hell, I wouldn't take her if Pike paid me.”
The crowd erupted.
The woman remained still.
Amos Pike loved the laughter.
He was forty-eight, narrow through the shoulders, greasy through the hair, and possessed the sort of smile that always looked as if money had just changed hands somewhere it should not have.
He slapped the wagon.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Show some respect.”
That made people laugh harder.
“This here is a healthy, marriageable woman. Young enough. Strong enough. Two hands, two feet, and from what I'm told, she knows how to work.”
“Can she cook?” somebody called.
Amos shrugged.
“If she can't, teach her.”
More laughter.
The woman beneath the cloth did not react.
Amos leaned closer to the crowd.
“There is one small complication.”
He tapped the beige fabric covering her head.
“Face ain't included until payment clears.”
Someone shouted, “Ugly as sin!”
Another yelled, “Probably missing an eye!”
“Leave the sack on!”
The crowd roared.
Only one person in the street did not seem entertained.
The woman.
Her blue-sleeved fingers slowly tightened.
No tears.
No begging.
No visible fear.
That disappointed them.
Then the crowd changed.
Not all at once.
One man near the hotel stopped laughing.
Another straightened.
A woman watching from the boardwalk stepped backward.
Heavy boots struck mud.
Slow.
Measured.
Silas Boone entered the street.
He did not need to announce himself.
At six feet four inches, with shoulders broad enough to crowd most doorways, Silas looked as if the mountains north of Black Creek had decided to send something human down to town.
His dark-brown hat sat low over pale-gray eyes.
A thick beard covered his jaw.
Shoulder-length dark hair curled against the collar of a long black coat trimmed with wolf fur.
A rifle rested across his back.
Mud covered his boots nearly to the ankle.
Men moved aside without being asked.
Nobody in Black Creek knew Silas Boone well.
Everyone knew something.
He owned a cabin thirty miles north.
He trapped through winter.
Raised horses through summer.
Sold hides, timber, and occasionally cattle.
He had once carried an injured man six miles through snow after a logging accident.
Another story claimed three thieves had attempted to rob him and returned to town without their guns, boots, or pride.
Nobody knew which stories were true.
Nobody volunteered to test them.
Silas stopped six feet from the wagon.
His eyes moved to Amos.
Then to the woman.
The laughter died.
Amos swallowed but recovered his smile.
“Well now.”
Silas said nothing.
“Silas Boone.”
Silence.
Amos spread his arms.
“Looking for company up in those lonely hills?”
A few men chuckled nervously.
Silas looked at the covered woman.
“How much?”
Amos blinked.
“Well, now.”
“How much?”
“Depends how serious you are.”
Silas reached beneath his coat.
Several people stiffened.
He withdrew a leather pouch.
He tossed it onto the wagon.
The bag hit the boards with a heavy metallic thud.
Amos opened it.
His mouth fell open.
Silver.
More than thirty pieces.
Enough to buy livestock.
Enough to buy land.
Enough to make every man watching reconsider his decision not to bid.
Amos looked up.
“You serious?”
Silas's gaze stayed on the woman.
“Yes.”
Amos grinned.
“Well, then.”
He snatched the pouch.
“She belongs to you.”
Silas finally looked at him.
“No.”
Amos hesitated.
Silas stepped closer.
“The money buys your claim.”
“What?”
“Whatever paper, debt, transport fee, or invented charge you're using to keep her on that wagon.”
His voice remained quiet.
“It ends now.”
Amos's smile faded.
“You just paid.”
“I paid for her freedom.”
Someone in the crowd shifted.
The woman moved for the first time.
Her covered face turned toward Silas.
He removed one glove.
Then held out his bare hand.
He did not grab her.
Did not lift the cloth.
Did not tell her to come.
His scarred palm remained open between them.
“That money doesn't make you mine,” he said.
The street became perfectly quiet.
“It means he can't sell you again.”
The woman's hands remained in her lap.
Silas waited.
“If you take my hand, you decide where you go next.”
A long moment passed.
Then one blue-sleeved hand rose.
It trembled.
Her fingertips touched his palm.
Silas did not close his fingers immediately.
She did.
Her hand curled around his.
Only then did his large hand gently close.
The crowd watched.
The single voluntary touch altered the entire scene.
The woman's voice emerged from beneath the cloth.
Soft.
Tired.
But steady.
“Don't let go yet.”
Silas's expression changed.
Barely.
He stepped nearer.
“I won't.”
“Not until I'm off the wagon.”
“As long as you need.”
Amos laughed nervously.
“Well, Boone, aren't you going to see what you bought?”
Silas turned his head.
The look in his eyes ended the laughter.
“I didn't buy a face.”
Amos stepped backward.
Silas returned his attention to the woman.
“Can you stand?”
“Yes.”
He braced one hand near her elbow without touching.
She rose carefully.
Her boots found the wagon step.
Then the muddy street.
People leaned forward.
The beige cloth remained over her head.
Nobody saw even an inch of her face.
Silas guided her away from the wagon.
Amos called after them.
“Boone.”
Silas stopped.
“There are papers.”
“Bring them.”
Amos's expression shifted.
“What?”
“Every paper connected to her.”
“They cost extra.”
Silas released the woman's hand.
Amos smiled.
Then Silas removed his coat.
Not aggressively.
Slowly.
The rifle on his back became more visible.
Amos reconsidered.
“Maybe I can find them.”
“Do that.”
Five minutes later, Amos produced a folded document from inside the trading post.
Silas read it.
His face hardened.
The woman waited beside him.
“What does it say?” she asked.
“That Pike claims you owe thirty-two dollars for transport, lodging, and placement.”
Her covered head dropped slightly.
“I never agreed to placement.”
“I figured.”
Amos protested.
“She signed.”
Silas looked at the bottom.
There was an X.
He turned toward the woman.
“Is that yours?”
“No.”
Amos's face changed.
Silas folded the paper.
“I'll keep this.”
“You can't.”
“You forged her mark.”