Keech hurried back to the shack before the night air could freeze him through. After latching the door, he covered himself in blankets and shivered near the fire. When sleep finally came, Sam’s icy face haunted him.
Before he knew it, the gossamer light of daybreak peeked through the hut’s shabby walls, and Keech awakened, huddled on his side. Quinn’s fire had diminished to coals and powdery ashes.
Keech sat up with a start, his breath creating clouds of mist in the frosty air. Heavy winds wheezed through the rickety wallboards. The top of Duck’s head peeked out from under her blankets, and Quinn lay burrowed under quilts that muffled his snores. Keech clapped his stiff hands a few times to wake his partners. “Rise and shine, you two. We need to strike out soon.”
As Duck and Quinn stirred, Keech unlatched the door and stepped outside to the horses. Hector and the ponies greeted him under the lean-to with a series of irritated huffs. The cold night had been hard on them. Keech patted the cremello stallion’s muzzle. “Sorry, Heck. I reckon you want to get to a proper barn.”
After they packed up the horses, Quinn asked Keech if he could borrow Doyle’s carving knife. “I got an idea,” Quinn said, a long piece of pine bark in his hand. Keech handed over the knife, and Quinn set to work. On the inside skin of the bark, he carved the phrase Amicus fidelis protectio fortis, Doyle’s Latin phrase about friendship. Quinn propped the strip of bark, carved words facing out, against the shack’s door. “Just in case Cutter rides through and needs to stop for shelter. He’ll see we stopped here, too.”
“We probably shouldn’t leave a sign, what with the Reverend searching for us,” Keech said.
Quinn handed the carving knife back. “I don’t reckon Rose’s gang knows any highfalutin words, so we’ll be safe. Even if that fiend Coward sniffs me on the bark, it won’t matter. I want Cutter to know we haven’t given up on him. It’s worth the risk.”
Duck tilted her head at the sign. “I’d wager Cut’s already ridden past here.”
“Maybe he has, but maybe he hasn’t. Anyhow, it’s worth a try. I’d want to know my friends still cared,” Quinn said.
Bundling up against the cold, the Lost Causes headed back to the Santa Fe Trail. They rode in silence, feeling too cold and sleepy to chat much. A gentle snow tumbled over the prairie, large flecks frosting over the tracks of earlier travelers.
As they traversed the endless miles, Keech found himself playing through the previous night’s vivid dream. He couldn’t figure out an easy way to tell Quinn and Duck about his strange experience without sounding foolish. They would surely laugh at him for saying they needed to save a wagon train because of a ghostly midnight visit. But Pa Abner had always told the orphans to pay close attention to their dreams. Sometimes your night eyes will notice something your daytime eyes might’ve skipped, he used to say. Dreams can be a way to spot the true path you missed while awake and blinking at the sun. Keech felt there was something important about his lost brother’s mysterious words.
So he summoned his grit and told them about the vision.
Duck and Quinn listened in guarded silence as Keech recounted Sam’s message.
Quinn asked, “You think the dream was talking about the wagon train that left out of Wisdom? The one holding Auntie Ruth and the other prisoners?”
“Maybe. Not sure,” Keech said. “Sam didn’t say which wagon team, only that we had to save it.” He hesitated. “He also mentioned a key.”
Duck’s gaze turned suspicious. “What are you talking about?”
“He told me the wagons are carrying a special key tucked away in a lockbox.”
“A key as in the Key?” Quinn asked.
Duck didn’t seem convinced. “I ain’t saying I don’t believe you, Keech. I know the importance of a dream these days. But this wagon team business don’t involve us finding McCarty or tracking down Aunt Ruth or Cutter. It doesn’t point us to the House of the Rabbit. Seems your dream aims to make us lose sight of our mission.”
“But our mission includes the Key,” Keech pressed. “If we can get our hands on it, we’re one step closer to stopping Rose.”
Quinn said, “I dunno, Keech. Seems to me a proper vision would’ve given a trifle more information. Your dream feels more like a nice wish when you think about it.”
“Not to me. It felt as real as you and me talking right now. I think there is a wagon train out there, and it’s in trouble.” Keech shook his head in frustration. “Don’t y’all think we have a responsibility to investigate? As deputies of the Law?”
“I think calling ourselves the Law might get us in trouble,” Duck said.
Though Sheriff Turner deputized the Lost Causes in Bone Ridge, Keech noticed that the farther they traveled from Missouri, the less Duck seemed to believe in the solemn oath they had taken. And Quinn had been skeptical of their claim to be the Law in the first place.
Keech felt his blood begin to rise, but he stifled the anger. “Forget it.”
They traveled on through the delicate snowfall. Duck kept peering at their back trail with a concerned frown, but Keech couldn’t see any sign of movement behind them. The rolling plains seemed to merge into the winter clouds, erasing any distinction between earth and sky. “Something’s got you spooked,” he said.
Duck pulled Irving to a halt and drew the brass telescope out of her coat. Swiveling in her saddle, she scanned the horizon. After a moment, she compacted the glass and returned it to her pocket. “I can’t see a thing.”
“Please don’t say the crows have found us,” Quinn moaned.
“I thought I saw a rider, maybe two, in the distance. But maybe I didn’t. I don’t know.”
“Do you reckon we’re being followed?” Keech asked.
“This is the most traveled road in the whole territory,” Quinn said. “We ain’t the only ones riding it.”
“Y’all just keep a close lookout,” Duck said.
Farther west, the snow-clouded sky cleared a bit and the Kansas plains dished up a mighty sight. The landscape broke into a series of tall, jagged ridges resembling giant teeth biting into the haze.
The Rocky Mountains.
“Would ya look at that,” said Quinn. “Me and Auntie Ruth saw plenty of high hills in Tennessee and Arkansas, but I never saw anything that big.”
They rode on toward the mountains, stopping once at a frozen creek to eat a light meal of cold bread and dried blueberries. After a few more hours of slow crossing over the foothills, the horses showed signs of fatigue. Keech was about to call for another short recess when Quinn cupped a hand over his brow and said, “Hold up.” Squinting through the blurry snow, Quinn leaned over his saddle horn to fetch a better glimpse. “I think I see somebody.”
Halting the horses, they stood still in the deep freeze. No one spoke.
To the north, a solitary rider shuffled across the snowpack, drifting like a spirit straight in their direction.
“Quinn, you might warm up those vocal cords, get ready to hide us,” Duck said.
But before Quinn could start singing, the rider noticed them. “Hello the trail!” a deep voice called.
Keech grew tense when Quinn waved. “Don’t!”
“He looks like a regular ol’ traveler to me,” Quinn said. “But if he tries something, break off and ride hard and I’ll start my singing.”
As the horseman drew closer, Keech noticed that the fellow was a dark-skinned man wearing several layers of thick gray hides. He rode a handsome pinto horse, and behind his cantle lay a dead deer, tied to the horse’s rear. A smoothbore musket rested on the fellow’s lap. The stranger moseyed up, stopped his mount, and tipped his hat. A mean white scar zigzagged across the man’s forehead.
“Don’t mean to interrupt your passage,” the fellow said. “Just ridin’ through. Got me a deer to skin ’fore the daylight passes.”
Keech tipped his own hat. “No troubles, friend. We’re happy to meet a kind soul on the Santa Fe.”
The deer hunter said, “You best be careful thinkin’ folks are kind before ya know. Not if you want to live long in the rough.”
“Mighty good advice,” Duck replied. “Say, mister, can you tell us if you spotted a fort nearby? Our horses are in terrible need of a stable.”
The hunter hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating north. “You want Hook’s Fort, back yonder. Last spot of civilization for fifty miles. They got a saloon with rooms to rent. North gate’s closed up for winter, but you can enter ’round to the south.”
Before the trio could push on, the hunter stopped them. “Hook’s Fort is safe enough, but some of those folk can be a tad unfriendly. Watch yourselves. And you, son”—the hunter gestured at Quinn—“keep yourself low and your eyes open.”
Quinn frowned at the man’s words. “Don’t you worry. I can take care of myself.”
The fellow smiled. “What’s your name, son?”
Quinn pushed himself up taller in the saddle. “Name’s Quinn Revels, son of George and Hettie Revels.” He added with a proud tone: “Tell everybody you come across.”
The man’s scarred face turned melancholy. “And are you safe, Quinn Revels?” The fellow peeked at Keech and Duck, then back at Quinn.
Quinn pondered a moment. “No, sir. But my friends and I are fighting to make it so.”
A sympathetic kind of silence overtook the hunter as he wiped a gloved hand across his forehead. His eyes spoke of long days and haunted memories. “Some bright day, Mr. Revels, maybe you won’t have to fight no more,” he said. Then, clucking to his horse, the stranger disappeared up the path.
The young riders continued, pushing their mounts farther up the rutted highway till the landscape dipped into a northern valley. Quinn found them an easy path into the basin, and they veered off the Santa Fe Trail.
To the northwest, a speckling of black dots roamed the snowy flatlands, and Keech realized it was a massive herd of buffalo. The herd was slipping steadily past a dark shape atop one of the distant hills—the walls of a remote garrison. “I’d wager that’s Hook’s Fort,” Keech said. “If a trigger-happy horseman happened to see the buffalo from the fort, he could fire off and start a bona fide stampede.”
Quinn chuckled. “Well, let’s hope that don’t happen.”
“We need a plan before we ride up,” Duck said. “If this place is like Wisdom, overrun with outlaws and thralls, we’ll be caught before we can sneeze.”
“Don’t forget; it may be crawling with slavers, too.” Quinn’s cautious frown spoke of longtime vigilance on the trail out of Tennessee with his aunt.
“We should scout first,” Keech said.
They trotted toward a vantage point that looked out at the fort, a rectangular stronghold with gray block walls. Quinn hummed, hiding them from the garrison, as the horses labored up a long rise. A strong flurry swirled around them, reducing their sight, erasing the mountains and the west-moving buffalo, leaving only the fort in view.
Dismounting, the young riders huddled on their stomachs. They watched the fort’s stone walls till Keech spotted a pair of armed men patrolling the eastern side.
“Think they’re thralls?” he asked.
Duck peered through her spyglass. “They walk like normal men.”
Part of Rose’s mission involved taking down settlements in his path, as well as seizing military supplies to outfit his reanimated scum. But Hook’s Fort didn’t show the first sign of a thrall. Maybe Rose was leaving towns intact along major highways so as not to stir up the attention of the Law—at least till his dire army was fully assembled.
“Let’s go in,” Keech said, “but remember what that deer hunter said. Stay low, and watch one another’s backs.”
Mounting back up, they traveled down the slope and across a flat field toward the garrison. The high walls and the corner bastions reminded Keech of a medieval castle. Black cannon barrels peeked out of big loopholes, and a square blockhouse loomed over the north gate. Keech spotted a brass bell hanging over the gatehouse—the fort’s emergency signal—and the thirty-one-star flag of the United States flapping on a pole.
As they approached the south gate, a pair of rugged herdsmen stared down at them from the parapet. The men bumped each other’s elbows as the kids stepped up. One of them called down, “Hola, niños.”
“Hola,” Duck returned.
Seated on a stool near the gate, a bearded fellow cradled a steaming cup of coffee. A heavy fur cloak draped his shoulders, and a musket leaned against the wall. He lifted a bushy brow when he saw them. “Why, you’re just a buncha little ’uns!”
Duck huffed. “We’re seeking shelter. May we enter?”
The bearded man shrugged. “Long as you ain’t carryin’ firearms. We don’t allow civilians to carry pistols and such around the fort. You can drop your lead chuckers in this here bin.” He kicked the side of a large open crate full of shooting irons and a few rifles.
“We ain’t armed,” Duck said. She patted her pelt to show nothing concealed.
The guard shook his head. “What kind of fool lads are y’all to travel these plains without sidearms?” The man had clearly mistaken Duck for a boy, but no one corrected the fellow.
“Maybe we’re smart enough we don’t need them,” Duck said.
The guard unlatched the crossbars. “In that case, welcome to Hook’s Fort! Enjoy our hospitality.”
They rode into a spacious plaza, a bustling square alive with commerce. Narrow streets extended from the center like the spokes of a crooked wheel. Mingling smells of moldy hay and chicken manure filled Keech’s nostrils, but he didn’t mind the odor.
Men and women of all backgrounds and colors milled about the plaza, chatting and laughing and grumbling at the cold. Snow-covered wagons sat along the edges of the square, many seemingly abandoned for the long winter. Keech tipped his hat to a group of dark-skinned mountain men loading supplies onto the backs of haggard mules. A few scruffy dogs roamed in a pack, nipping at one another’s paws. Beneath the overhang of a tottery porch, a long-legged Texan bartered the price of a bison hide with a pair of Kiowa tribesmen.
“Folks here ain’t so bad,” Quinn said.
No sooner did he speak the words than a heavyset cowpuncher with a bulging stomach and a filthy goatee stepped out of the crowd. He bumped into Quinn’s shoulder as he passed, catching Quinn off guard and spinning him about. The scruffy man kept walking but spat a few terrible curses back at Quinn.
“Hey!” Duck shouted at the man. “Watch where you’re going!”
Quinn said, “Don’t worry about it, Duck. We need to keep low, remember?”
But the cowpuncher was already twisting back around to face them. His pale features scrunched. “What’d you say?”
“I said—” Duck began, but Keech jumped in before she could finish.
“She said we best be on our way. Have a pleasant day.”
The man glared at Duck, then tossed another scowl at Quinn before disappearing into the plaza.
Duck grimaced. “If we didn’t have places to go, I’d set that fella straight on who he can shove.”
Quinn clapped her on the back. “I’m sure you would. For now, though, I think that deer hunter on the trail was right. We best get outta sight, maybe head down an alley. They’re too many folks milling about, and like Auntie Ruth says, rattlesnakes often wear human faces.”
The Lost Causes passed a stumpy courthouse and a soldiers’ barracks. A church steeple leaned in the breeze, and a few rows of tents housed a throng of pilgrims waiting out the winter. A water well sat in the center of the square, the circle of stones frozen over, and a gaunt man wearing a beaver cap plucked at a guitar with only two strings.
They turned down a side street named Broken Bit Alley and asked around for a farrier to tend the horses. “Then we can hunt down the trapper McCarty,” Duck said. The fallen Enforcer Milos Horner hadn’t given them any details about the fellow beyond his name, but surely someone in the fort would know something helpful.
As they rounded the corner, the dusty sounds of piano music filled Keech’s ears, an old river tune he recognized as “Oh Shenandoah.” The song wheezed out of a two-story building ahead, where a sign over the front door proclaimed:
TANGLEFOOT TAVERN
FARO TABLES ♣ FINE WHISKEY
AFFORDABLE RATES
“This must be the saloon,” Quinn said, speaking over the noise of the piano and a hee-hawing mule nearby. “Maybe somebody inside can tell us where to find the trapper.”
Suddenly the door to the Tanglefoot Tavern burst open, and out spilled an older woman clad in dark brown furs and batwing chaps. “Oh Shenandoahhh, I long to see youuuu, away you rolling riverrrrr!” the woman sang, off-key. She wore no hat, and the wild tangles of her curly red hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks in greasy clumps. Stumbling down the icy steps, she lost her balance and tumbled into the snow in front of Hector.
“Miss, are you all right?” Duck asked.
The tipsy woman cackled. “I been called a lot, tadpole, but I ain’t heard ‘Miss’ in ages.” She attempted to stand, gave up, and plopped back to the slushy ground. “Goodness, am I roostered!” she said, swiping dirty snow off her chaps.
“We’re on the lookout for a trapper,” Quinn said. “A fella who goes by McCarty.”
The stranger rumpled her grimy face. “Bah,” she spat, then raised two fingers to her mouth and whistled. “Achilles! Com’ere, boy!”
“Our mounts need attention,” Duck said. “Could you point us to a farrier?”
Not bothering to answer, the woman searched the street. “Where is that dang mutt? I tol’ him to wait here.” She glanced at Keech. “Have you seen my dog?”
“I saw a few back in the square,” Keech said.
The red-haired stranger pushed herself up onto wobbly feet. She staggered, pitched forward, and caught herself on a hitching post. She called out, “Achilles, where are ya, boy?” Then back to the young riders: “There’s a livery stable at the end of Broken Bit. You’ll find a farrier named Travis.”
Duck tipped her hat. “Much obliged.”
The young riders watched the woman disappear into the crowd. “That’s funny,” Quinn said.
“What?” Keech asked.
“Her dog’s name is Achilles. That’s the fella who fought Hector in The Iliad. Hector is your horse’s name.”
Keech pondered the coincidence, agreed it was interesting, then turned his thoughts back to the mission. “Let’s go on to the stable.”
Down the alley they passed several open stalls, most of them empty, the frigid winter days having driven the boot menders and harness-makers indoors. At the end of the path, the young riders found a livery stable built up against the fort’s high wall. A sign on the door carried the farrier’s symbol: a pair of crisscrossed hammers nestled inside an upside-down horseshoe.
They dismounted, and Duck banged a fist against the door. “Anybody there? Y’all open?”
The door creaked open, and a thick, sturdy woman with round cheekbones peeked out. She wiped her hands across her leather apron and gandered at the horses. “Those animals look run down,” she muttered with a frown. “I can tend their shoes for ten cents a hoof. Dollar twenty for the lot.”
“You must be Travis,” Duck said.
The woman threw open the stable doors. “Bring ’em on in. I’ll give ’em proper care.”
A heavy wall of warmth greeted them as they stepped inside. Keech loosened his scarf and shrugged off his pelt.
A few lanterns set around the barn lit the chamber. Straw littered every inch of the floor, and a cast-iron stove blazed in the corner, the front grate open. Farrier tools rested atop a leather bag on the ground, and a black anvil sat nearby for shaping horseshoes. Narrow stalls lined the side walls, housing a number of uninterested horses.
Travis didn’t bother to fetch their names, but she greeted their horses like old friends, allowing them to learn her scent. She watched the animals shift about. “I wonder if you youngsters understand how painful it can be for a pony to walk a trail without decent groomin’. That means daily hoof pickin’ and work with a brush.”
Keech frowned. “We brush them and clean their hooves near every day.”
“Whatever the case, I’ll need a few hours,” Travis said.
Duck pursed her lips at Keech and Quinn. “Let’s have a huddle.”
The trio gathered in the corner, away from the farrier’s ears. Keech said, “We can leave the ponies, but we need to keep aware of the time. I’ve got a bad feeling we’re gonna squander our chance to save that wagon team and find the Key.”
“Keech, I just don’t know,” said Quinn. “We should stick to the mission.”
“I agree. Let’s just fetch our supplies and ask around for McCarty,” Duck told the boys. “We need to get a lead on this trapper. I reckon if we can find him, things will fall into place.”
A cold surge of anger ran through Keech’s veins. He hated being ignored, but he bit back his irritation. “Fine. Let’s get moving, then.”