IV
October 11, 1881
“Aye,” a grisly middle-aged miner was saying as he chewed on the end of an unlit cigar. “Hamilton, you said?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and combed his dirty fingers through his beard. “Aye,” he repeated. “Tinkerer was here before daybreak. We knew he’s been around these parts the last week.” He motioned to the equally dirty younger men flanking either side of himself. “And the boys over at Fist and Nugget—that’d be copper and silver mines, respectively, sir—they seen him. He gave them a good scare too.”
“Has he outright attacked any of the mines?” I asked.
The man squinted as he studied the horizon over my shoulder. “No, sir. Not exactly.”
“Which means?”
The miner removed a dingy cap from his head and wiped his forehead. “Last week, Tinkerer tried to buy Nugget.”
Gunner made a sound under his breath.
I shot him a quick look, but Gunner merely tugged the brim of his Stetson lower while his jaw worked a fresh stick of Black Jack gum.
“I guess that ain’t quite right,” the man continued. “He went ’round, started throwing double eagles at the lads, promising more where that came from if they handed over the daily loads of silver to him. You gotta understand, Mr. Hamilton—”
“Agent Hamilton,” I corrected.
“What?”
I sighed a little. “Special Agent Hamilton.”
“Oh. Aye. Er—” He chewed on that cigar some more. “Twenty dollars is over two weeks of work.”
“Then the miners at Nugget have supplied Tinkerer with silver?” I concluded.
“No. They considered. We all did. Double the pay is mighty tempting. But he can’t be trusted.”
“We didn’t take one cent,” the man on the right piped up. His face was speckled with freckles, like an artist had flicked paint from his fingertips.
“Wise decision,” I answered. “I’m sure it saved everyone’s lives. Because I can guarantee that if Tinkerer got what he needed, he’d have destroyed the evidence afterward. If you understand my meaning.”
The middle-age miner took the cigar from his mouth and pointed at Gunner with it. “That and because of Gunner.”
“Pardon?”
“Ain’t no one Tinkerer is afraid of. Except Gunner the Deadly. When he got into town yesterday, Tinkerer backed off. He’s still testing our boundaries, but he’s cautious. Less, ah… less aggressive. That’s the word.”
Was there not one person in Shallow Grave who didn’t view this outlaw as a saint?
I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and said, “I appreciate your opinion—”
“It’s true.” The lanky third man finally spoke. “No disrespect, sir, but lawmen take bribes. They look the other way. They abuse power. Gunner don’t.”
On this point I couldn’t disagree. I was from New York City. Our police force was corrupt beyond measure. It was only because of the Bureau’s unique organization that we were protected from similar exploitations. Agents were compensated well, but the simple fact that we were all registered and overseen by the government made it difficult to accept kickbacks. Director Moore was also as honest a man as they came these days. He was constantly clashing with the police commissioner over city regulations and the harassment his agents were often dealt by coppers on the street.
The third man continued. “Just havin’ Gunner in town keeps the gambling halls honest.”
The freckled lad asked, “Wild Freddie—you heard of him, sir?”
I let out a held breath. “I’m familiar, yes. Cattle rustler, isn’t he?”
“Aye. Piece of dirt tried to take advantage of my sister last year. She was fifteen. I was here—workin’ the mines—otherwise you’d best believe I’d have taken care of him myself, sir. But Gunner stepped in.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Saved my baby sister’s life and ran Wild Freddie out of town. He ain’t never been seen around here again.”
Lanky leaned forward to look around the man between them to ask, “Weren’t he missing a testicle too?”
“When Gunner finished with him,” Freckles agreed.
I spared Gunner a second glance and whispered, “You castrated a man?”
He didn’t answer, but a flicker of what constituted a smile passed over Gunner’s features.
Honestly, that was vigilante justice I could get behind.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” I stated. “Before we go, would you be able to tell us where you believe Tinkerer has gone to?”
Freckles and Lanky looked at the older man for guidance.
He stuck the cigar between his teeth again and patted the pockets of his dirty waistcoat. “East,” he grumbled.
“And what is in the east besides town?” I reached a hand out, snapped, and offered a small flame on the tip of my finger.
The miner jerked backward. His gaze darted between the magical offering and down at the cigar now clenched so hard between his teeth that he looked ready to bite through it. “N-no, thank you.” He quickly took the cigar from his mouth and stuck it into a pocket.
I fought to keep my face neutral, lowering my hand and snuffing the flame out of existence. “East,” I prompted once more.
“Dead Man’s Canyon,” the miner answered quickly, his interest in speaking with me so clearly over and done with. “The canyon is only ’bout a mile from town. Good a place as any to hunker down.”
I turned to walk away from the men and general commotion surrounding the mine, but paused to watch Gunner reach into his trouser pocket, remove several silver coins, and disperse them between the three. Neither of us spoke as we mounted our horses—Gunner’s a glossy-black Morgan stallion, mine a borrowed Saddlebred mare with a questionable disposition. Gunner took the lead until we’d put Big Mouth at our backs, then slowed his horse to a trot and fell in alongside me.
“That upset you.”
“What did?” I asked.
“His reaction to your magic.”
“I’m quite used to it.”
Gunner stared at me from under the brim of his Stetson. “It still bothered you.”
I gave the reins a tug when the horse slowed to consider some shrubbery. “I don’t enjoy being treated like I’m an oddity in a sideshow, no.” I changed the subject. “You paid those men.”
“I did.”
“No one in this town seems to have a negative thing to say about you.” I glanced at Gunner again. “Now it makes sense.”
Gunner chuckled in an actual, honest-to-God, he-found-something-humorous sort of way. “Are you always so cynical, my dear Hamilton?”
I felt my face flush. “It wasn’t cynicism.”
“What do you think I do with the money I procure?” he countered.
Procure.
“I’m certain you’ll enlighten me.”
“I require very little in life. Black Jack, Folgers, and a loaded Waterbury,” Gunner explained.
“Stetsons aren’t what I would consider affordable.”
Gunner put his thumb and forefinger on the brim of his hat. “Every man has an element of vanity.”
I smiled. “So why appropriate the funds if you have no intention of keeping them?”
Gunner turned his attention to the trail ahead. He held the reins in one hand, his body moving in gentle sync to the Morgan’s gait. He looked comfortable. Confident. Like a man who truly didn’t need anything more than the hat on his head and the untamed wild before him.
“You said you’ve been working at the Bureau for nearly a decade,” he began.
“Twelve years next April.”
“In ’65—when the government mandated casters come out of hiding and be regulated—what did you do?” Gunner gave me a sideways look. “Did you comply?”
“I fail to see the relation between these topics.”
“It’s a simple question, Hamilton. Did you, or did you not, comply with the government’s order?”
I gave the mare’s reins another jerk. “I didn’t, no. Not right away. I was only thirteen.”
“And yet I’m certain you’d lived a lifetime in those thirteen short years.” Gunner’s gaze didn’t waver. “Enough to not blindly trust the promises of politicians in a war-weary country.”
Conversations of this nature were setting me increasingly on edge. I couldn’t understand how Gunner the Deadly, of all damn men, was able to dissect and label the parts of me that no one—not even my director—had been able to successfully identify. And yet he managed with such ease and accuracy. Gunner was certainly an observant fellow, but God, was he a mind reader as well?
I sat up straighter in the saddle. “I made an informed decision when I reached eighteen. I had time to consider all of the implications—”
“Of letting someone know how powerful you are.”
“Of the good I could do in return for the sacrifice of my privacy,” I corrected.
Gunner nodded. “We aren’t so different.”
I snorted. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t wake one morning and decide to go out and break a few laws,” Gunner explained. “I was put into situations that required making a decision. Not only for my well-being, but of those around me. I’ve never killed an innocent man and never stolen bread from the mouth of a child. Your files call me a vigilante, and if you must put a label to my actions, then yes, that is likely the most accurate. I’ve sacrificed my safety because I know I can do good. Sometimes bad men die when I do good. I don’t regret that. I don’t regret feeling alive.”
“Alive?” That one word was so difficult to echo. Like it was foreign and my tongue could hardly comprehend the shape and structure of its syllables.
“I’ll keep skirting the law and you’ll keep enforcing the law,” Gunner continued.
“But be certain your decision has allowed you to live. Otherwise, what’s the point of taking a breath today if it does nothing for you tomorrow?” He was quiet for a moment before adding with a touch of thoughtful consideration, “I steal from airships because sometimes, I get bored.”