The emphasis on that last word carried years of bitter experience.

Chinese, Mexican, anyone who isn’t white.

We’re not people to men like Victor.

We’re property, tools, things to be used and discarded.

Not everyone sees it that way.

Enough do, and the ones who don’t, Sarah moved toward the door.

They’re too scared to matter.

Like me, like Dutch, like everyone else in this god-forsaken town who knows what Victor is but won’t lift a finger to stop him.

She paused in the doorway, looking back at him one more time.

My sister believed someone would save her.

Right up until the end, she believed help was coming, that someone would see the injustice and act.

Sarah’s eyes were wet now, though her voice remained steady.

I buried that belief with her.

So, if you’re planning what I think you’re planning, don’t do it for glory.

Don’t do it thinking you’ll be a hero.

Do it knowing you’ll probably die, and do it anyway, because it’s the only thing that matters.

Then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Dne finished his coffee in the silence that followed, tasting ash beneath the bitter brew.

He’d heard variations of Sarah’s story before, in different towns, different territories.

The specifics changed.

Names, faces, exact circumstances, but the core remained the same.

Power protecting power, violence hiding behind law.

Good people paralyzed by fear, while bad ones thrived, and always, always the question, what could one man do against a system designed to crush him? 3 years ago, he’d answered that question by doing nothing.

by telling himself that fighting impossible odds was foolish.

That protecting his own was more important than abstract justice.

Then he’d lost his own anyway.

Lost them to the same evil he’d refused to confront.

Because evil doesn’t stay confined to other people’s problems.

It spreads.

It grows.

And eventually it comes for everyone.

He checked his guns one more time, then headed downstairs.

The courthouse sat at the end of Main Street, a squat brick building that aspired to grandeur but achieved only pomposity.

Dne approached it just after 8 when he figured the clerk would be opening up, but before the building got crowded with morning business.

He was right.

The front door stood a jar, and inside he could hear someone moving around, the scrape of furniture and rustle of papers that marked the start of a bureaucrat’s day.

The interior was cooler than outside, though not by much.

Dust moes danced in the light streaming through high windows.

Shelves lined the walls stuffed with ledgers and documents that represented the official record of Rust Valley’s existence.

Deeds, contracts, birth certificates, death certificates, all the paper proof that people had lived and owned and died in this corner of Arizona.

A man sat at a desk in the back, thin and balding, with the pinched expression of someone who’d spent too many years counting other people’s property.

He looked up as Dne entered and something wary immediately crossed his face.

Help you.

The tone suggested he’d rather not.

Looking for some information about a contract.

Labor contract specifically.

The man’s weariness intensified.

What kind of information? Like to see a copy.

Woman named Mlin.

Contract holder Victor Hail.

That would be confidential.

Even if the person the contract concerns wants it examined, “You’re not Mlin.

” The clerk, this had to be Clancy, the cousin Dutch had mentioned, stood up.

“He was taller than Dne expected, though still thin as a rail.

” “And even if you were her, Mister Hail would need to approve any examination of his property records.

” Property records, not employment records.

The phrasing told Dne everything he needed to know about how Victor’s contracts were filed.

So, you’re saying the contract exists? I’m saying you need to leave.

Clancy’s hand drifted toward a bell on his desk, probably used to summon the sheriff.

We don’t provide confidential information to strangers.

Dne didn’t move.

What if the contract isn’t legal? What if it was signed under duress or by someone who couldn’t read the language it was written in? That would be for a court to decide.

And who would bring it to court? The woman trapped by it? Using what money? What legal representation? Dne took a step closer.

Or maybe the sheriff would investigate.

The same sheriff who eats at Victor Hail’s table.

Clancy’s face flushed red.

You need to leave now or I’ll have you removed.

By who? Deputy Wells.

Dne smiled without humor.

The kid whose badge Victor bought.

The bell rang sharp and insistent as Clancy slammed his hand down on it.

The sound echoed through the courthouse like an alarm.

Dne had maybe 30 seconds before company arrived.

He used them to scan the room, noting the organization system.

Property records on the left, sorted by owner name.

Contracts and agreements on the right, filed by date.

You’re making a mistake, Clancy said, his voice pitched high with nerves.

Mr.

Hail has friends, important friends.

You can’t just come in here making accusations, not making accusations, asking questions.

There’s a difference.

Not to Victor.

There isn’t.

The front door banged open.

Deputy Marcus Wells strode in, hand already on his gun, youngface set in what he probably thought was a threatening expression.

Up close, he looked even younger than Dne had estimated, barely past 20, with the kind of smooth features that hadn’t yet been weathered by hard living.

That was fast, Dne observed.

Mr.

Clancy sent word last night that you might cause trouble.

Marcus positioned himself between Dne and the clerk.

said you had an interest in things that aren’t your concern.

Funny how looking at public records counts as causing trouble.

Public records require proper authorization to examine.

You got authorization? Didn’t know I needed it.

Documents being public and all.

Marcus’ hand tightened on his gun.

Don’t be smart.

Mr.

Hail wants to see you.

You’ll come with me now.

Dne considered his options.

He could refuse.

force a confrontation right here.

But that would mean guns drawn in a courthouse, bullets flying around records he might need.

Not to mention, Marcus was nervous enough that he’d probably shoot first and ask questions never.

Better to see what Victor wanted.

Hear what the man had to say when he thought he held all the cards.

“Lead the way,” Dne said.

Relief flickered across Marcus’s face.

He’d clearly been worried Dne would resist.

“Smart choice.

Now let’s go and keep your hands where I can see them.

They walked out into morning sunlight that had grown brutal, the kind of heat that made men’s tempers short and judgment shorter.

Marcus stayed three paces behind, far enough that Dne couldn’t disarm him easily, close enough to shoot if needed.

People watched them pass.

Women paused in their shopping to stare.

Men stopped their conversations to track their progress down Main Street.

By noon, everyone in Rust Valley would know that the stranger who’ challenged Victor Hail was being marched to a reckoning.

Victor’s house sat on the north edge of town exactly as Dutch had described.

Two stories, painted white, though the paint was peeling in places, a wide porch wrapped around the front, and behind it Dne could see what looked like a stable and several outbuildings, the kind of spread that announced wealth and permanence.

Marcus led him around to the back entrance through a gate and a white picket fence that looked ridiculous in this desert town.

They entered through the kitchen.

She was there.

Min stood at a cast iron stove, stirring something in a pot.

She wore a different dress than yesterday, gray cotton, equally plain, and her hair was pulled back in the same severe style.

The bruise on her face had darkened overnight to deep purple and sickly yellow.

She looked up as they entered, and her eyes met Dnees for just a moment.

In that brief connection, he saw fear.

Not for herself.

She’d moved beyond that, he suspected.

Fear for him.

Fear that his interference would make everything worse.

Then she looked away back to her cooking, becoming invisible through stillness.

Wait here, Marcus said, then disappeared through an interior door.

The kitchen was clean, well organized, with copper pots hanging from hooks and shelves lined with preserves and dry goods.

Everything in its place, everything controlled like Mlin herself.

Ordered, contained, a life reduced to function.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

Didn’t have much choice.

“You always have a choice.

You chose wrong.

” She stirred the pot with mechanical precision.

Victor is angry.

When he’s angry, he’s dangerous.

I’ve dealt with dangerous men before.

Not like him.

Now, she did glance at him, and her expression carried something that might have been pity.

You think because you’re fast with a gun, because you’re not afraid, that means you can win.

But Victor doesn’t fight fair, he doesn’t fight at all.

He destroys.

And he uses the law, the town, everyone’s fear to do it.

Then he needs to be stopped.

By who? you.

Min actually laughed though there was no joy in it.

One man against everything he’s built.

You’ll be dead by sunset or in jail or disappeared like the others who thought they could stand against him.

Others like your sister.

She went very still.

The spoon stopped moving.

What do you know about her? Just what Sarah told me.

That she tried to run? That she didn’t make it? Min’s hands trembled slightly on the spoon handle.

Lily was foolish.

She believed in justice, in righteousness.

She thought that because something was wrong, someone would make it right.

Her voice dropped to barely a whisper.

She died believing that I won’t.

What do you believe? That survival is all that matters.

That fighting men like Victor is how you end up dead.

That sometimes the only way to win is to endure.

She finally looked at him fully.

I’ve endured for 3 years.

I can endure longer, but you you’ll just get yourself killed trying to save someone who can’t be saved.

Before Dne could respond, the interior door opened again.

Marcus reappeared, jerking his head.

He’ll see you now.

Dne followed the deputy through a hallway lined with expensive wallpaper and paintings that probably cost more than most people in Rust Valley made in a year.

The house was a monument to Victor’s success.

Each room they passed displaying wealth in increasingly ostentatious ways.

They stopped at a door of dark wood, ornately carved.

Marcus knocked twice.

“Come.

” The voice from inside was cultured, educated, nothing like Dne expected.

The office beyond was everything a successful businessman’s domain should be.

Bookline shelves, a massive desk of polished mahogany, leather chairs, a globe that looked ancient and valuable, and behind the desk, Victor Hail himself.

He looked different than he had in the store, calmer, more composed, dressed in a suit that probably came from San Francisco or even New York.

His hair was neatly combed, his mustache precisely trimmed.

He could have been a banker, a lawyer, a senator, but his eyes were the same.

Cold, calculating, predatory.

Mr.

Callaway.

Victor gestured to one of the chairs.

Please sit.

Marcus, you can wait outside.

The deputy hesitated, clearly unhappy about leaving his boss alone with Dne, but Victor’s dismissal was absolute.

Marcus left, closing the door behind him.

Dne remained standing.

Victor smiled slightly.

Suit yourself.

I understand you’ve been asking questions about me, about my business dealings, about Mlin.

That’s right.

May I ask why? Call it curiosity.

Curiosity.

Victor leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

Dangerous thing out here.

Curious men tend to find trouble they’re not equipped to handle.

I’ve handled trouble before.

I’m sure you have.

You have the look of a man familiar with violence.

A bounty hunter, I’m told.

Successful one, too, if the stories about Blackjack Morrison are true.

Victor’s smile widened slightly.

But there’s a difference between hunting outlaws and involving yourself in legitimate business affairs.

Nothing legitimate about beating a woman.

The smile vanished.

What happens in my home with my property is none of your concern.

Property? Dne let the word hang between them.

That’s an interesting way to describe a human being.

Is it? Victor stood, moving to a cabinet where crystal decanters caught the morning light.

He poured himself whiskey despite the early hour.

I have a contract, Mr.

Callaway.

legal binding properly filed with the territorial authorities.

Mail signed it of her own free will, agreeing to seven years of service in exchange for passage from California and room and board.

3 years remain on that contract.

Legally, she is bound to me.

And if she couldn’t read what she was signing, ignorance of a contract’s terms doesn’t invalidate it.

Any lawyer will tell you that.

Victor sipped his whiskey.

Though I find your sudden concern for contract law touching.

Do you interrogate every businessman about their labor agreements or is this specifically about Chinese women? It’s specifically about abuse.

Abuse? Victor tasted the word like it was foreign.

I provide her with shelter, food, clothing, protection.

In exchange, she performs duties outlined in our agreement.

If she’s occasionally corrected for failing to meet those duties, that’s within my rights as her employer.

Beating someone isn’t correction.

It’s violence.

Your opinion? Not the laws.

Victor returned to his desk, setting down his glass with careful precision.

Now, let me be clear, Mr.

Callaway.

I don’t know what romantic notions you’ve entertained about rescuing a damsel in distress, but Min is not yours to rescue.

She’s mine legally, ethically, in every way that matters.

Nothing ethical about slavery.

Victor’s expression hardened.

Careful.

That’s a serious accusation.

One that could land you in legal trouble if you repeat it without proof.

I’ve seen the proof.

Saw it on her face yesterday.

Saw it in the way she flinches when you move too fast.

You saw discipline.

Nothing more.

Victor leaned forward, his voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous.

Here’s what’s going to happen.

You’re going to leave Rust Valley today, this morning, preferably.

You’re going to forget about Min.

Forget about contracts and questions and whatever misguided sense of justice brought you into my store yesterday.

And in exchange, I’ll forget about this conversation.

Forget about your interference.

Let you ride out of here alive.

And if I don’t, then you’ll discover that I have considerable influence in this territory.

Judges who owe me favors.

Sheriffs who depend on my goodwill.

Not to mention men who do what I ask when I ask it without bothering with inconveniences like law or morality.

Victor’s smile returned colder than before.

You’re one man, Mr.

Callaway, a stranger in a town where I hold every card.

If you force me to act against you, it won’t be a fair fight.

It won’t even be close.

Dne had heard similar speeches before from men who thought power made them untouchable.

Sometimes they were right.

Sometimes they learn different.

Appreciate the warning, he said.

Then you’ll leave.

Didn’t say that.

Victor’s jaw tightened.

For just a moment, the civilized mask slipped and Dne saw the same man who’d struck Mlin yesterday.

Brutal, petty, used to immediate compliance.

Don’t be a fool, Victor said.

There’s nothing for you here.

Mlin doesn’t want your help.

Did she tell you that? She knows better than to encourage interference.

She understands that her situation, while unfortunate, is better than the alternatives.

Better than deportation, better than dying in an alley.

Like, he stopped himself.

Like Sarah’s sister.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Victor’s face went very still.

You’ve been talking to the wrong people.

Or maybe the right ones.

Sarah Chen is a bitter woman spreading lies about a tragedy she doesn’t understand.

Her sister was killed by robbers.

It was investigated, prosecuted, covered up.

Careful, Victor’s voice had gone soft again.

Dangerous.

Accusing me of murder is a good way to end up answering to the sheriff.

And unlike you, I have witnesses, alibis, proof of my whereabouts that night.

Bought witnesses, paid alibis.

Victor stood abruptly, his chair scraping back.

This conversation is over.

Marcus.

The door opened immediately.

The deputy had clearly been listening.

Sir, escort Mr.

Callaway out of town personally.

Make sure he reaches the county line and keeps riding.

Marcus looked uncertain.

And if he doesn’t want to go, then arrest him.

Disturbing the peace, trespassing, whatever you need to make it stick.

Lock him up until I decide what to do with him.

Dne met Victor’s eyes across the desk.

You’re making a mistake.

No, Mr.

Callaway, you are.

The only question now is whether you’ll compound it by staying or show some wisdom and leave while you still can.

Victor sat back down, picking up a pen like Dne had already ceased to exist.

Marcus, get him out of my sight.

The deputy’s hand went to his gun.

You heard him.

Let’s go.

Dne allowed himself to be escorted out back through the hallway with its expensive decorations through the kitchen where Mlin still stood at the stove, not looking at him, out into the brutal morning heat.

They were halfway to the boarding house when Dne stopped walking.

“Keep moving,” Marcus said, nervous energy making his voice shake slightly.

“No, I’ll arrest you.

” “For what? Standing still?” “For For disobeying a lawful order,” Dne turned to face him fully up close.

The kid looked even more uncertain, hand trembling on his gun.

“How old are you, Marcus?” “That’s not 22, 23.

” old enough to know right from wrong.

I’d guess I know my job, which is what? Protecting a man who beats women? Covering up murders? Being Victor Hail’s trained dog? Marcus’ face flushed.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, don’t I? Tell me something.

You sleep well at night knowing what Victor does to Min, knowing what probably happened to Lily Chen? That was ruled an accident.

It was ruled whatever Victor wanted it ruled.

Dne took a step closer.

Marcus’ gun came up, but his hand was shaking badly.

Now you wear that badge like it means something, like it makes you a man.

But what kind of man serves someone like Victor Hail? He He’s done a lot for this town.

The mine, the jobs.

Built on the backs of people he controls through fear and violence.

That’s not prosperity.

That’s tyranny with a ledger.

Marcus was sweating now.

and not just from the heat.

You need to leave.

Just Just go.

Please.

Can’t do that.

Why not? She’s not worth dying for.

The words hung between them.

And in Marcus’ stricken expression, Dne saw the truth.

The kid knew, knew what Victor was, what he did, knew, and had convinced himself that going along was easier than standing up.

“Maybe not to you,” Dne said quietly.

But worth’s not something you get to decide for other people.

He turned and started walking.

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