“What do you meant it’s been cut? Where?”
The hand spoke.
“Well, those telegrams need to go out today. Someone will have to carry them to a different telegraph office.”
Bill dropped his mug of coffee on the carpet. He felt like his entire body had turned into glass. Hard, inflexible, transparent. And as if the room around him was not real, but instead a painting or photograph. The moment stretched on, and to his surprise, he found that he knew exactly what he had to do.
Both O’Shea and the boy were having porridge. The boy was not eating much, just stirring it with his spoon and laughing and staring at his feet. But then he looked up abruptly and fixed his eyes on something behind O’Shea. O’Shea turned in his chair. Bill Bread stood in the doorway.
“If you’re hungry—” O’Shea began.
“They’re coming,” Bill said.
“I’m sorry?”
Bill’s eyes were almost orange with jaundice and broken blood vessels.
“They’re coming,” Bill said. “That’s why they cut the telegraph line.”
It only took O’Shea a moment to understand.
“Coming to attack us?” O’Shea said.
“Yes sir,” Bill said.
“Was that your plan?” O’Shea asked.
“No, it wasn’t the plan,” Bill said. “But I’ve been with Augustus Winter for twenty-five years, and I’m telling you the plan done changed. I can feel it.”
The weight of the years seemed to hit Bill.
“Twenty-five years this November. They cut the telegraph line and they’re coming. You got to get ready.”
O’Shea stared at Bill, unblinking, then bellowed: “Nathan!”
The black servant appeared.
“I’m going to Pryor Creek,” O’Shea said, standing up. “Take my rifle out of the study and keep an eye on Mister Bread here. If he tries to move, shoot him.”
Nathan nodded.
“You ain’t got time to go to Pryor Creek,” Bill said. “How many men you got here?”
“There aren’t thirty real fighting men in the whole fucking town,” O’Shea snarled. “And they won’t last five minutes against the Winter Family.”
“Hooah hon hon!” the boy laughed.
The boy’s bright blue eyes were fixed on the floor as always, but the expression on his face was almost sly.
“Why are you telling us this?” the boy asked Bill. “Hmm? Won’t they kill you if they find out you told? Find out you told? Yes!”
“Hush, Lyndon,” O’Shea said to the boy. His voice was rough but not unaffectionate. “Nathan, tell Macy to bring the boy up to his room. And to keep him away from the windows.” Then O’Shea turned back to Bill. “Why are you telling us this?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Bill said. “I honestly don’t.”
5
Winter had prepared himself for his visit to town. He was clean shaven, save for his mustache, with his hair neatly combed and parted, and he guided his horse with his knees while he held his Winchester rifle with both hands. The green corn crumpled and snapped beneath the hooves of his galloping horse, and of the horses of the riders who followed him.
The Winter Family emerged from the cornfield behind a farmhouse near the edge of town. A woman drawing water saw them. She let the bucket she was holding tumble into the well and she ran, shrieking, into the house. A few seconds later a man emerged with a shotgun. Winter shot him down.
“Yee haw!” Johnny Empire cawed.
“Winter!” Fred Johnson called. “Winter!”
Winter did not respond; instead, he dismounted on the fly, stalked up to the back door of the house, and kicked it open.
“Jesus,” Johnson said.
The Empire brothers and a few of the rowdier ones followed Winter inside. Charlie Empire was already unbuckling his pants as he hopped through the back door.
Johnson turned to face the men still on their horses. “Where’s O’Shea’s house at?”
“I don’t know,” Quentin said. “I’ve never been there.”
“We got to get that money quick,” Johnson said.
“Oh, there will be no help with the telegraph line cut,” Quentin said, his eyes twinkling. “The closest town is twenty miles from here.”
“If someone gets out of town, there’ll be men in here in an hour.”
“Well then,” Quentin said, smiling, while his horse nervously danced back and forth beneath him. “I suppose we had better make sure that they don’t.”
A woman screamed, and Johnson looked back to the house just as Winter marched outside. The expression in Winter’s eyes was terrifying. It was as if his irises were slowly turning, rotating like wheels around the hard, dark, tiny pupils. He looked at Johnson briefly, then headed toward town, on foot, his rifle resting against his shoulder and a can of kerosene dangling from his left hand.
“Winter!” Johnson called. “What the hell are you doing?”
Flames flickering up by the windows. The house was on fire.
“Holy hell,” Hugh said.
Johnson forced himself to unclench his jaw. “There’s only two roads in this goddamn town,” he said. “We need to cover every exit. North, south, east, and west. Nothing gets out. Then we need to hit the biggest house and we find the money. The whole goddamn state is going to be up in arms in just a few hours. If we ain’t halfway to Texas by sundown we’re all dead men.”
They nodded at him, nervous, then watched as the pantless Empire brothers staggered confused out of the flaming house.
“What the hell?” Charlie said.
“Exactly,” Johnson said.
Quentin laughed, and they spurred their horses around the house and into town.
6
Bill Bread waited in O’Shea’s parlor, rocking back and forth. The shakes had settled into his hands, and a dry agony was crawling around in his chest.
The black servant, Nathan, stood by the bay window. He kept the gun pointed at Bill, but every now and then he glanced outside.
“Did you hear a shot?” Nathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Bill Bread said. “I don’t suppose I could have a drink of whiskey?” He had intertwined his fingers and was twisting them, like a rag he was trying to squeeze dry.
“No,” Nathan said.
“Anything?” Bill asked.
“How can you think about drinking at a time like this?” Nathan said.
Bill made a small, sad noise and looked down at his hands.
A shot rang out.
“Did you hear that?” Nathan said.
“I did,” Bill replied. “They’re here. Like I told you.”
Nathan looked outside, then stiffened.
“Do you see one of them?” Bill asked.
Nathan stepped back and pulled the rifle up to his shoulder.
“I think you’d better get away from the—” Bill started. The window shattered, and Nathan fell to the ground.
Bill Bread stopped rocking. He sat in his chair and waited until the door broke open.
It was Hugh Mantel, big and soft and peering over his spectacles, along with a tall Mexican named Enrique and a bald Swede with a wicked countenance who had only ever identified himself as Foxglove.
“Bill!” Hugh said. “So this is O’Shea’s house?”
“Yes,” Bill said.
“Where’s O’Shea?”
“Gone,” Bill said. “There’s only a Negress and a boy here.”
Foxglove shot Nathan in the head.
“Where’s the money?” Hugh asked.
“What money?” Bill said.
Hugh cursed and said, “Enrique, check the cellar, Fox, upstairs. Me and Bill will take the ground floor.”
Foxglove tromped up the stairs. He started in the servants’ wing, but he did not waste much time there, instead progressing to O’Shea’s expansive bedroom, where he pulled the drawers out of the dresser and hacked the mattress with his bowie knife.