"Sold to the drifter for $1," the clerk announced. "Step forward and sign your mark. " Jonah walked to the desk. He did not sign with a mark. He took the pen and wrote Jonah crow in a sharp angular hand that surprised the clerk. He slapped a silver dollar onto the desk.
It rang loud and clear. "It is a fool's errand," the clerk said as he stamped the deed. "That roof likely collapsed two winters ago. You are buying a grave, mister. " Jonah took the paper, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. It is my grave to buy," Jonah said.
He turned and walked out, feeling the eyes of the town on his back. He heard the whispers starting before the door even swung shut. "That is the one they call the blood man. Does not belong here. " "Savage," Jonah set his jaw. He had heard the words before.
He had heard them in army camps and trading posts, in saloons and churches. He was a man who walked between worlds, belonging to neither the white settlements nor the tribes his grandmother had come from. He was used to being punished simply for existing. He went to the general store next, moving with efficiency. He needed to be up the mountain before the weather turned.
He bought a sack of flour, a bag of salt, 5 lb of coffee beans, a small keg of nails, and a cast iron grate for a stove. The storekeeper, a man with watery eyes and a red nose, tallied the bill. "That'll be $12," the storekeeper said, looking not at Jonah, but at the wall behind him. Jonah knew the price was high. He knew a sack of flour did not cost that much, even this far west.
He looked at the storekeeper, and for a second, the air between them grew tight. The storekeeper shifted his weight, his hand drifting toward the counter where men usually kept a scatter gun. Jonah did not argue. arguing would mean staying, and staying meant trouble. He reached into his pouch and counted out the coins, placing them on the counter with deliberate care. He paid the tax on their hatred without flinching.
I will take a box of cartridges, too, Jonah said..45-70. The storekeeper put the box on the counter, taking the money quickly, as if Jonah's touch might taint the silver. You headed up to the ridge? the storekeeper asked, unable to help his curiosity. Jonah nodded once. "Storm coming," the man said.
"A big one. You will be cut off until spring if you are not careful. " Jonah did not answer. He gathered his supplies, hefted the heavy sack of flour onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, and walked out into the gray afternoon. The climb to Black Pine Ridge was a punishment. As Jonah guided the geling up the switchbacks, the air grew thin and cold, biting at the bottom of his lungs.
The trees here were ancient pines, twisted by the wind, their roots clawing at the rocky soil like desperate fingers. The silence deepened with every mile, a heavy living silence that swallowed the sound of the horse's hooves. By the time he reached the plateau where the cabin stood, the sun was sinking behind the peaks, painting the sky in bruises of purple and blood orange. The wind was howling now, driving snow that stung his face like grit. Jonah pulled his coat tighter and narrowed his eyes.
There it was. The cabin sat in a small clearing, backed against a sheer cliff face that offered some protection from the north wind. It was rougher than he had hoped. The logs were weather scarred and gray, the chinking falling out in places. The front porch sagged dangerously to the left, and the roof was patched with flattened tin cans and sod.
It looked abandoned. It looked like a husk left behind by a dead world. Jonah felt a grim satisfaction. It was a ruin, but it was his ruin. He dismounted, tying the horse to a sapling.
He would need to build a shelter for the animal, but for tonight he would bring the beast into the lee of the wall. He walked toward the cabin, his boots crunching on the frozen crust of snow. He reached for the latch, his mind already cataloging the work he would need to do. Fix the roof, shore up the porch, mud the chimney. Then he stopped.