Page 7 of The Widow and the Wanted

Up ahead, the foreman turns in his saddle, voice hushed.

“Scout says the surveyors are a mile out. No violence unless it’s called for. But if it is—no witnesses. Understood?”

A few men mutter their assent. Most stay quiet.

We keep riding. The moon is high and bright, lighting patches of the forest floor. The sky is so clear the pins of light above feel closer than usual. Clear enough to see where a line of clouds moves fast beyond the horizon.

The trees grow close, gnarled and bare.

After another hundred yards, the scout slinks back through the dark. A wiry sharpshooter the foreman called Jessup, hair slick with sweat, eyes wide.

“Found ’em,” he whispers, breathless. “Ain’t more than five or six, most like, and they’re women. Least three of ’em. Dressed proper. Don’t look like settlers. But don’t look like no damn government team neither.”

A silence settles over the group.

Someone behind me lets out a low whistle. Another laughs, quiet and mean.

“Hell,” one man says. “Guess we’re in for a different kind of work tonight.”

A few men chuckle.

Boone doesn’t laugh. Neither do I.

The foreman raises a hand to settle them down, but there’s no surprise on his face. No protest. Just a shrug.

“Orders said clear the camp. Didn’t say who was in it.”

My stomach turns, slow and sour. It’s one thing to kill a man who has accepted the risk of his choices—soldiers in a war or government men forcing their laws in a lawless territory should expect resistance, no doubt. But innocent women?

We may be lawless men, but we are not godless.

Boone mutters low, just for me, “Lord have mercy.”

The foreman swings back into the saddle, like it’s just another task. “We move in ten. Clean, quiet. Same rules apply.”

He rides off without waiting.

“I ain’t killin’ no women minding their own business,” Boone mutters, spurring his horse to catch up to the foreman.

“Boone,” I hiss, but it’s of no use. He’s too far to hear my warning.

I ride up just in time to overhear the foreman tell Boone, “Orders are orders.”

“Fuck orders,” Boone snaps, not minding his tone, and others turn their heads. “Ain’t no reason you can’t ask them to clear out peaceful.”

The foreman fixes him with a warning scowl. “We’ll be peaceful, long as they do as they’re told.”

I tighten my grip on the reins as he rides ahead. The cold seeps deeper through the leather of my wool-lined coat the further we go, as the wind blows any warmth clean off. Whatever’s coming is coming fast.

We ride single file through the dark until the trees thin enough for lantern light to slip between the branches. Jessup raises a hand, slowing us. Ahead, maybe forty yards, a faint glow pulses through the timber. A small campfire, flickering steady as a heartbeat.

The foreman dismounts and motions for quiet.

We slip from our saddles one by one, boots sinking into damp earth. The only sounds are the creak of leather and the hush of the wind.

I edge forward until I can see them.

Women, just like Jessup said. Four at least, maybe five. All gathered around the fire, shawls pulled tight, notebooks open on their laps. One’s pointing at the sky, maybe tracing a constellation with her finger while the others tilt their heads back to follow.