"You are too calm," Eli said. His voice was rough. "I have been in rooms where men wanted to hurt me before," Clara said, snapping the loading gate of the Winchester shut. "Fear makes your hands sweat. Wet hands slip on the trigger.
I will be afraid later, Eli. When we are alive. " She took the Black Ledger, the book that contained the secrets of Harland Pike's Empire, and wrapped it in oil cloth. She pried up a loose floorboard near the hearth, a hiding place she had discovered while scrubbing the floors weeks ago. She wedged the book deep into the crawl space and hammered the board back down. "If they burn the house," Eli said, watching her.
"The book goes too. " If they burn the house, Clara stood up, brushing dust from her knees, we will be dead, and the book will not matter. Outside, the wind carried the sound of voices. Not the chaotic shouting of a mob, but the low, organized murmur of men who knew they held all the cards. Eli moved to a slit he had left between the window boards. He peered out.
"They are here," he said. Harlon Pike sat on a massive black geling 50 yards from the porch. He was dressed in a heavy buffalo hide coat, his silver hair perfectly combed beneath his hat. Flanking him were Silus Vance and the corrupt Sheriff Miller. Behind them, a posy of 20 men, some hired guns, some towns folk who had been bullied or bought into believing they were serving justice.
Pike raised a gloved hand. The line of riders stopped. Concaid. Pike's voice carried easily over the distance. It was a rich baritone voice, the voice of a man who was used to being listened to in boardrooms and churches.
There is no need for this ugliness. Eli did not answer. He checked the sight on his rifle. I have a warrant for the woman. Pike called out.
Surrender her. Give me the item she stole from my safe. Do that and you keep your land. You have my word. Your word is worth nothing, Eli shouted back.
And the warrant is a lie. Think about it, son. Pike said, his tone shifting to a mock paternal disappointment. You are a rancher. You belong here.
Do not throw your life away for a saloon girl who is dragging you down to hell. Send her out. We will treat her fairly. She will get a trial. Inside the dark house, Clara leaned her back against the rough logs of the wall.
She closed her eyes. The words seeped into her like cold water. Saloon girl, dragging you down. She looked at Eli. He was crouched by the window, his profile sharp and hard in the sliver of light.
He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who had aged 10 years in 10 days. "Eli," Clara whispered. He turned to her. "He is right," she said.