James Gallagher walked from the bar to the table, where Belinda Millay sat with a deck of cards in front of her and Binky next to her.
“Miz Millay . . .”
Belinda cut the deck, lifted the ace of spades off the top, and looked up at Gallagher.
“Miz Millay . . . do you believe that all men—and women too—are created equal?”
It was a toss-up as to who was more startled—Belinda or Binky.
“Would you mind,” Belinda said, “repeating that?”
“Well, uh, are all men created equal? I been thinkin’ about it.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Belinda asked.
“In school.”
“That must’ve been a long time ago.” Belinda smiled. “How come you just got around to thinking about it now?”
“No, I just heard it over where that Sister was teaching.”
“Are you a student of Sister Bonney’s?” Binky inquired.
“No. Just poked my head in the window and heard what she told the kids.”
“Well,” Binky said, “the conceit is not original by her. I believe it appears in your . . . that is, your country’s . . . Declaration of Independence.”
Gallagher wiped at his mouth. “So, what do you think, Miz Millay?”
“Why ask me?”
“I had to ask somebody.” Gallagher shrugged.
“Well, around the Emporium, all men—and women—are considered equal . . . unless they start acting unequal. That’s the best I can do for you, Jim.”
Binky arched an eyebrow. “My good fellow, if it’ll help, the poet wrote ‘Death makes equal the high and low.’”
“That don’t help much.”
“Why don’t you ask your boss?” Belinda suggested in jest.
“No. I don’t think I will,” Gallagher said and walked toward the bat wings.
In the stable on a wagon lettered R. LESSUR—FREIGHTING, Rooster and another employee were loading a long, heavy crate. Already onboard were two similar crates and others of different proportions.
Rupert Lessur watched as Gallagher entered the stable.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Uh . . . just wetting my windpipe.”
“Well, if your windpipe is sufficiently wet, I’d like you and Rooster to make a delivery.”
“It’s almost dark.”
“Is there some clause in our arrangement that says you don’t work after sunset?”
“No, boss.”
Lessur turned to the other employee who had helped with the loading.
“That’s all, Gotch. You can go now.”
“Sure, boss.”
When Gotch had left, Lessur took a step toward Gallagher.
“You know that cave up at Horse Rock?”
“Yeah.” Gallagher nodded.
“Put a tarp over the wagon, then take this load up and leave it in the cave.”
“But those crates have got—”
“I know the contents of those crates.”
“You mean . . . just leave ’em there?”
“Those are my instructions.”
“But why?”
“Because . . . ,” Lessur said, “those are my instructions.”
As Ike entered the stable, Ben was inspecting the front wheel of his wagon while Jake stood by watching.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Boys asleep?” Jake asked.
“Who knows?” Ike said. “But they’re in bed. Ben, what do you think?” Ike nodded toward the wagon as Ben rose.
“I think we can carry as much as Mister Dolan is ready to load . . . and then some.”
“Good. We’ll leave for the Rattlesnake at first light. Well, better get some sleep. Good night, fellas. See you in the morning.”
“Good night,” both Jake and Ben said.
At the entrance, Ike turned and looked back.
“And one more thing,”—he patted the gun on his hip—“don’t forget the artillery.”