The wind coming down off the high granite peaks of the Colorado Rockies in late 1886 carried the smell of snow long before the clouds turned gray.
Jonah Crowe rode into the county seat of Silverton with that scent filling his nose.
His collar turned up against a biting chill that seemed to have followed him all the way from the Canadian border.
He rode a bay geling that was more bone and grit than beauty.
And Jonah himself looked much the same.
He was a man whittleled down by months on a solitary trap line, lean as a rail, with eyes the color of flint that moved constantly, scanning rooftops and alleyways with the habit of a man who expected trouble to find him.
Jonah did not like towns.
He did not like the noise of them, the clatter of carriage wheels on hardpacked mud, or the way people stared at a man who wore buckskins stained with pine pitch and elk blood.
But a man could not live on silence alone forever.
He needed supplies.
And more than that, he needed land.
He was tired of drifting like smoke.
He wanted a place where he could close a door and know that the ground beneath his boots belonged to him by law, written out in ink and filed in a ledger where no one could tear it out.
He tied his horse at the hitching rail outside the county courthouse.
Ignoring the looks from two men in suits who stepped aside as if Jonah carried a plague, he was used to it.
He was a man of the mountains.
a creature of the high lonesome.
And to the town folk, he was something wild and unsettling.
A mountain savage who had forgotten how to be civilized.
Inside the courthouse, the air was stale and smelled of old paper and cigar smoke.
The auction was already underway.
A dreary affair presided over by a clerk with inkstained fingers and a voice that droned like a trapped fly.
A handful of locals stood around, mostly land speculators and cattlemen looking for grazing rights.
their boots scraping restlessly on the floorboards.
The clerk cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles.
“Ite number 42,” the clerk read, looking down at the paper with a sneer curling his lip.
A cabin and claim on Black Pine Ridge, seized for tax default.
3 years passed.
A ripple of laughter went through the small crowd.
Jonah watched them, his face impassive.
He knew Black Pine Ridge.
It was high country, brutal and unforgiving, buried in snow for 6 months of the year.
The trail up was a goat path that washed out every spring.
The clerk looked up, scanning the room.
Do I hear a bid for this property? It includes the structure, such as it is, and 20 acres of vertical rock.
The room remained silent.
A man in a bowler hat spat into a brass kuspador near Jonah’s boot.
“You could not pay me to take that place,” the man muttered.
It is cursed.
Old man who lived there died crazy.
And the wind up there screams like a banshee.
The clerk sighed, clearly expecting this outcome.
Come now, gentlemen.
The timber rights alone must be worth a fiverr.
Silence stretched out.
The clerk raised his gavvel.
Ready to pass the lot.
$1, Jonah said.
His voice was a low rasp, unus to shaping words for other people.
The heads of the men in the room turned toward him in unison.
The clerk looked over his spectacles, squinting at Jonah standing in the shadows at the back of the room.
“1 $1,” the clerk repeated, a dry chuckle in his throat.
“You represent yourself, sir.” “I do,” Jonah said.
He stepped forward, the light from the high windows catching the scar that ran from his jaw into his hairline.
A souvenir from a life he tried not to remember.
The clerk looked at the other men, inviting them to mock the stranger, but something in Jonah’s stillness made the laughter die in their throats.
“Very well,” the clerk said, sounding bored.
“$1 for the Black Pine Ridge parcel.
Going once, going twice.” The gavl came down with a sharp crack that sounded like a pistol shot in the quiet room.
“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 said, 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.
4570.
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 flower onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, and walked out into the gray afternoon.
The climb to Blackpine 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.
He stood perfectly still, his breath clouding in front of his face, his eyes sharp as a hawks, locked onto the chimney.
A thin wisp of smoke barely visible against the gray sky, was breathing from the flu.
Jonah’s hand went instantly to the knife at his belt.
He did not draw it, but he rested his palm on the handle.
The clerk had said the place was empty, abandoned.
He looked at the ground near the porch steps.
The wind was scrubbing the earth, but it had not yet erased the signs.
There were bootprints, small ones, and a line dragged through the snow like a sled or a travoy.
Someone was inside.
Jonah approached the door like a man expecting a trap.
He did not stomp his feet to clear the snow.
He moved with the rolling, silent gate of a hunter.
He stepped onto the porch, avoiding the rotting planks he had spotted earlier, and stood by the door.
He listened.
From inside, he heard the faint scrape of metal on iron.
Someone was tending a stove.
Jonah did not knock.
He owned this door.
He lifted the latch and pushed it open, stepping inside quickly, scanning the room in a single heartbeat.
The interior was dim, lit only by the orange glow of the stove and a single kerosene lamp turned low.
The air smelled of wood smoke and something sharper.
Fear.
In the corner, rising from a crude chair, was a woman.
She was small, thin to the point of gauntness, dressed in a faded wool dress that had been mended a dozen times.
Her hair was dark, pulled back in a tight braid that fell over her shoulder.
But Jonah did not look at her hair.
He looked at the Winchester rifle she had leveled at his chest.
Her hands were shaking, the barrel wavering in the air, but her finger was curled tight around the trigger.
“Get out,” she said.
Her voice was not loud.
It did not scream.
It was the steady, flat voice of someone who had learned that screaming did nothing to stop bad things from happening.
Jonah stopped, his hands held away from his body, palms open.
He was a large man filling the doorway, blocking the fading light.
He saw her eyes widen as she took in his size, his knife, the rough look of him.
He saw something else, too.
He saw the dark purple bruises encircling her wrists, stark against her pale skin.
He saw the way she favored her left side, as if her ribs were taped.
He saw the hollows under her cheekbones that spoke of hunger.
“I said get out,” she repeated, shifting her grip on the rifle.
I will shoot.
Jonah believed her.
He had seen cornered animals before.
They were the most dangerous kind.
This is my cabin, Jonah said, his voice low and rumbling in the small room.
I bought the deed at the auction in town today.
The woman blinked, confusion flickering across her face, but the rifle did not lower.
You are lying, she said.
Nobody buys this place.
It is cursed.
I paid a dollar for it.
Jonah said.
I have the paper in my pocket.
He moved his hand slowly toward his coat.
Stop.
She snapped, the barrel steadied on his heart.
Jonah froze.
He looked at her.
Really looked at her.
She was Matei.
He guessed by the set of her eyes and the high cut of her cheekbones.
She had the look of the mixed blood families who worked the fur trade up north.
She was beautiful in a haunted broken way.
But right now, she looked like she was made of wire and glass, ready to shatter.
“I am not going to hurt you,” Jonah said.
“That is what they all say,” she replied bitterly.
Outside, the wind gusted, rattling the loose shingles on the roof.
The temperature was dropping fast.
“If he went back down the mountain now, in the dark and the storm, he would likely freeze or his horse would break a leg.” Look, Jonah said reasonable.
The storm is coming.
A bad one.
I have a horse outside that needs shelter.
I have food.
At the word food.
Her eyes flickered to the sack of flour he had dropped on the porch.
The hunger in her expression was raw and unguarded.
I am not leaving, Jonah said.
I own this roof, but I am not going to throw you out in a blizzard.
She watched him, her mind working behind her dark eyes.
She was weighing the danger of the man against the danger of the winter.
She looked at his hands, then at his face.
She seemed to be searching for the cruelty she expected to find there.
“Put your knife on the table,” she said.
Jonah hesitated.
A man did not give up his blade, but he looked at the bruise on her wrist again.
He reached to his belt, unbuckled the sheath, and laid the heavy knife on the rough huneed table in the center of the room.
“The rifle,” he said.
Point it at the floor.
She did not lower it completely, but she angled it away from his chest, keeping it ready.
You stay on that side of the room, she said.
Jonah nodded.
He stepped back out to the porch, grabbed his supplies, and hauled them inside.
He kicked the door shut against the wind, dropping the heavy wooden bar into place.
The sudden silence in the room was heavy.
He began to unpack, his movement slow and deliberate so as not to startle her.
He set the flour, the coffee, and the beans on the floor.
He saw her watching the food as if it were gold.
“What is your name?” Jonah asked, breaking the silence.
She hesitated.
“Amily,” she said softly.
“Millie Jonah Crow.” “He said.” He looked around the single room.
It was sparse.
There was a narrow bed in the corner with a straw tick mattress and one good wool blanket, a rusted stove, a shelf with a few jars of dried beans that looked mostly empty.
On the table sat a battered Bible and a small tin.
The lid was open, revealing a few sewing needles and a spool of thread.
“You live here alone?” Jonah asked.
Milliey’s chin went up.
“I do now?” she did not elaborate.
And Jonah did not ask.
He saw a loose floorboard near the hearth that sat slightly higher than the others, as if something was wedged beneath it, but he filed that away for later.
The wind howled again.
A long, mournful sound that shook the logs.
Snow hissed against the single window pane.
“We need wood,” Jonah said.
He went to the stove and checked the firebox.
It was low.
He added a few sticks from the small pile next to it.
Millie watched him, her body tense, coiled tight.
Night fell like a hammer.
The cabin grew dark except for the pool of light from the lamp.
Jonah took his bed roll and unrolled it in the far corner, the coldest part of the room near the drafty door.
He wanted to show her he kept his word.
Millie sat on the edge of the bed, the rifle across her lap.
She did not lie down.
She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, her eyes fixed on him.
Go to sleep, Jonah said, stretching out on the hard floor.
I am not going to touch you.
I will stay awake, she said.
Jonah closed his eyes, but he did not sleep.
He lay there listening to the storm build.
The wind was screaming now, tearing at the trees outside.
It was the kind of night that buried mistakes and hid secrets.
Hours passed.
The fire popped and hissed.
Jonah’s breathing evened out, figning sleep, though his hand rested near the colt revolver in his coat pocket.
Then he heard it.
It was not the wind.
It was a sound distinct from nature.
The heavy rhythmic crunch of snow under multiple boots.
Voices muffled by the gale, shouting to be heard.
Jonah’s eyes snapped open.
He sat up.
Millie was already standing.
Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide with a terror that was absolute.
They are here,” she whispered.
Her voice broke.
“They will drag me back.” She looked at the door, then at the rifle, her hands shaking so hard the weapon rattled.
She looked like she might turn the gun on herself rather than open that door.
Jonah did not ask who they were.
He did not ask what she had done.
He looked at the terror in her face and made a choice that he did not fully understand.
“Kill the light,” he ordered.
Millie froze.
Now Jonah hissed.
She blew out the lamp.
The room plunged into darkness.
Lit only by the faint red glow of the stove vents.
Jonah moved fast.
He crossed the room, grabbed the heavy quilt from the bed, and threw it over the stove to stifle the light, praying it wouldn’t catch fire for a few minutes.
He grabbed Millie by the arm.
She flinched violently, but he pulled her down to the floor behind the bulk of the table.
Quiet, he whispered.
Not a sound.
The voices were closer now.
They were right outside the cabin.
I tell you, there is no one here.
A man’s voice shouted over the wind.
Look at the chimney.
No smoke.
I thought I saw a light.
Another voice argued.
It is a reflection of the moon, you fool.
There is no moon, but you know what I mean.
Place is abandoned.
Jonah smelled the drift of tobacco smoke seeping through the cracks in the logs.
They were on the porch.
He felt Millie trembling against him.
A vibration so violent it felt like she was seizing.
He put a heavy hand on her shoulder, pressing her down, grounding her.
“Try the door,” the second voice said.
Jonah’s hand moved to his revolver.
He thumbmed the hammer back.
The click was swallowed by a gust of wind.
The latch rattled.
The heavy bar held locked.
The voice said, probably rusted shut.
The first man replied, “Come on, my toes are black.
If she is up here, the cold will take her by morning anyway.
No woman survives a night like this without fire.” There was a pause.
Jonah held his breath.
He felt Millie holding hers.
The silence stretched, agonizing and thin.
“Let’s go,” the voice said finally.
“Back to town.” The sheriff can send a deputy when the weather breaks.
The sound of boots crunched away, fading into the howl of the storm.
Jonah waited a long time.
He waited until the only sound was the wind and the blood rushing in his own ears.
He took the quilt off the stove before it scorched.
He struck a match and lit the lamp, keeping the wick low.
Millie was still on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, her face buried in her arms.
She was not crying.
She was shaking with the aftershocks of adrenaline.
Jonah sat back on his heels, holstering his gun.
He looked at her, this woman he had bought with a $1 cabin.
He thought of the bruises, the fear, the men outside who spoke of her like she was prey.
“They are gone,” Jonah said quietly.
Millie lifted her head.
her eyes.
