The Night Angel (28 page)

“I’ve made a study of it since becoming involved in this mine of Mr. Gavi’s. The river folk you see here are a dying breed. They’ve been panning and sluicing for twelve years now, and most of the gold is cropped. Back when they started, they could pick up the gold with their hands. The largest piece is on display at the Charlotte Mint and weighed in at twenty-eight pounds.”

They passed three more sluices in the space of half a mile. Between each were fences and warning signs. Armed guards stood watch over each group. “They need all those guns?”

“What you see down there is the only law in gold country. The guards are there as much to keep the workers honest as they are to watch the yield.”

Theo Henning rode up on Falconer’s other side. “Them guards, they bury the sacks soon as they’re filled. You hear stories down Charlotte way about guards dying or going missing and the sacks they buried never being found.”

Joseph spoke up for the first time that morning. “Slaves tell stories too. ’Bout how workin’ that gold will break your back. Yessuh. First your back, then your soul.”

The valley through which they passed opened into a wide pasture. The farmland looked rich enough, yet the farm cabins held an unkempt air. The surrounding fields were all given over to weeds. A few cows, horses, and donkeys grazed in the lush undergrowth, but otherwise there was no sign whatsoever of cultivation. “It looks like a blight has struck here.”

“A calamity called gold,” Emmett Reeves agreed. “A few years back, when the river stopped giving up so much gold, three groups started digging. McComb was the first, then the Rudisill Mine, and the Saint Catherine. The sluice miners laughed at them for a time. The cost was huge and the initial take minimal. Now all three are recovering gold and making money. These days it comes down to who can raise the money to go underground.”

“Which is why your New York bankers became involved,” Falconer guessed.

“The Joyner place is half a mile from the river,” the lawyer agreed. “Without sluice gold, no simple farmer could come up with the capital to dig deep—not even when the farm between him and the river struck gold. So Joyner sold off half his ownership. Then a quarter more. Then another portion, until he was left with just a one-tenth share.”

“He must’ve come up with something to keep those bankers interested.”

“He did. Not enough to cover his costs, though. Then word came that he hit it big. That was last summer. Back in the early fall, Joyner brought in a wagonload of gold and started talking about how he should be able to buy back his holdings. The bankers stuck to their guns. Since then there’s been nothing. The last time I came out here, he threatened to fill me full of lead if I showed up again without the ownership papers. Not long after, the bankers offered their share to your Mr. Gavi.”

Falconer noticed that Emmett Reeves’ voice was showing a trace of nerves. “How far are we from the place?”

“Another two miles along the river road, perhaps three. Then the turning leads through a hollow and up to the farm.” The prospect caused the lawyer’s features to tighten. “Are you certain he will welcome us?”

“If we gave him a chance, probably not.” Falconer dismounted. “We’ll stop here.”

The river was clearer up this high, the water running fast. They sat on rocks around the steep bank and ate a cold lunch. A pair of guards appeared on the opposite bank. Falconer paid them no mind and eventually they slipped back into the pines and disappeared.

It was the moment Falconer had been waiting for. “Theo, Joseph, I want you to bring out those clothes we bought in Charlotte.”

“What clothes are these?” Emmett Reeves asked nervously.

“You just sit tight, sir,” Falconer ordered. “We’re not after lawyering right now. We’re after getting the job done.”

Chapter 23

Jeb Saunders looked to be in a reflective mood. “You mean to tell me he offered to buy the Moss place in gold?”

Brother Cody confirmed, “Did the deal, left the down payment, scooped up the slaves, and left. Bang and gone.”

“How you know Moss wasn’t just blowing smoke? Man always did like to brag, even when he was sitting at the table holding nothing but scrap paper instead of proper cards.”

“I heard it from the overseer, not Moss. Already told you that.”

“So you did, little brother. So you did.”

They were riding south, heading for South Carolina and their next buy. North Carolina hadn’t outlawed slavery, but they weren’t exactly welcoming of the practice either. The only regular auction in the whole state was by the Wilmington harbor, eight days’ ride east. And even that was active only when a slaver chose to unload stock. Otherwise the state had a surly attitude about the whole business, far as Jeb could tell.

The previous night, after giving Salem and theWachau valley a wide berth, they had slept in proper beds at a tippling inn outside Salisbury. Over a dinner of traveler’s stew, Jeb had made his brother recount everything he had discovered. For the fourth time. Today, as they continued south, Jeb repeated his questions once more. Cody didn’t mind. He was very comfortable letting Jeb do the thinking for the both of them. And one thing was certain. When Jeb finished his cogitating, somebody was going to be in for a world of hurt.

“You’re telling me Moss hasn’t started preparing for the spring planting.”

“Place was such a mess, even Pa would’ve complained.” Which was an exaggeration. Their father had been the laziest man to ever avoid setting hand to plow. “So much fruit rotting on the ground I could smell it from two pastures away. Hadn’t even turned over the earth from the last harvest.”

“So what we got here is a man who buys a farm but doesn’t tell the owner to make ready for the planting season,” Jeb mused. “He carts off all the slaves fit enough to travel. Leaves Moss holding a handful of gold. More of the same gold he used to overpay that feller up at Burroughs Crossing, and then us. Now, what does that tell you?”

“That he’s up to no good?” Cody offered hopefully.

“You got that right.” Jeb punched his hat down tighter on his head. “You know what I think?”

“Nope.” Here it came.

“I think we got us a man aiming on going against the proper way of things.”

Knowing Jeb, that could only mean one thing. “The feller’s an anti-slaver.”

“That’s what some folks call ’em.” Jeb offered his brother an evil smile. “Me, I just call ’em fair game.”

Emmett Reeves reined in his horse and pointed down a dusty side trail that wound through a sunlit hollow. “This is it.”

Falconer handed the lawyer the reins to his pack animals. “Theo, Joseph, let the lawyer take your packhorses. Mr. Reeves, you follow on behind.”

Emmett Reeves twisted the leather straps apprehensively. “Most likely he already knows we’re here.”

“I’m sure he does.” Falconer motioned his two men forward. “But he won’t know who we are yet. And hopefully he won’t expect what I aim on doing.”

They took to the forest trail and soon were lost to shadows and flickering lances of sunlight. A breeze suggested that spring might actually have arrived. But the farther they traversed the weedy track, the more pungent became the smell, a putrid mixture of charcoal and animals and unwashed men and sulfur.

When a stretch of brilliant sunshine up ahead announced the woodland’s end, Falconer ordered, “Take off your hats and stow your weapons. You remember what I told you?”

“We do,” Theo replied with a firm nod.

Falconer told them again anyway. “I go first. If I go down, you retreat and call this a loss. No matter what happens, you will not open fire. Even if I meet my end, do not take another life.”

Joseph shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was dressed as the other men, in a brand-new suit of navy broadcloth. Falconer had helped him with the neck, for the man had never buttoned a collared shirt before. “I don’t take so well to such comin’ from your mouth, suh.”

“I appreciate the sentiments. Nonetheless you will do as I say.” To halt further discussion, Falconer spurred his horse forward.

The instant they cleared the woodland came the hail. “Who goes there?”

Two guards had been caught lounging on a woodpile. One hefted his musket and walked toward the three. The other took his time, knocking his corncob pipe on a log.

“A good morning to you!” Falconer trotted up, waving an empty hand. “I’ve just come from Grobbe’s bank in Charlotte!”

“That supposed to mean something to me?” A trio of well-dressed men appearing unarmed and riding easy was not enough to raise their alarm. The closer man held his musket with the barrel aimed at the sky. The other stowed his pipe in a pocket and came slowly to his feet.

Falconer dropped from his saddle and started forward. He brushed by the first man, heading for the one by the woodpile. “Do you think the foul weather is finally behind us?”

The second man squinted at the broad-shouldered stranger’s approach and finally went for his musket. But too late.

Falconer planted one fist straight into the center of the man’s forehead, the sort of blow that would have felled an ox. The man’s eyes swam and he dropped to his knees. Falconer swung about just as the first man started to take aim. He gripped the barrel before it could be brought into position and jerked hard, pulling the man off balance. The guard realized the gun was useless and let go, reaching for a long-bladed knife strapped to his waist.

Falconer gripped the man’s wrist and squeezed. “You won’t be needing that.”

The guard’s eyes widened as his bones cracked. He started to shout, but Falconer’s other hand took hold of his throat. The man’s eyes rounded further and began to bulge.

“Joseph!”

The black man was already sliding from his saddle. He drew a length from his rope, cut it free, and knotted it about the guard’s neck. Joseph then sent it down the man’s back and looped it around the man’s waist. He quickly grabbed the hand trying to free Falconer’s grip on his neck and tied that behind his back. Falconer drew the second hand back for Joseph to tie as well. “How many guards are there?”

“I ain’t telling you a thing,” he croaked.

“That’s your choice, friend.” He lowered the man to the ground and held him as Joseph tied the man’s ankles and then drew them up behind him. A final loop was fitted into the man’s mouth, silencing him. Joseph had evidently seen his share of hog-tying, both animal and man.

Theo gathered up the guards’ weapons as Joseph tied the second guard. They stowed the weapons in the woodpile, then saddled up and headed across the meadow.

The field was shaped like a saddle. The grass was springtime green, a mint shade that flickered almost silver under the sunlight and the wind. Falconer crested the rise and there ahead of him stood a central cabin with a pair of outbuildings to either side. A former barn clearly served as a bunkhouse. The stables framed the entry to the mine.

The ridge rose steep and sharp behind the trio of buildings. In an earlier era the cliff might have sheltered a farmer and his wife from all northbound storms. But now the cliff had been assaulted, and the face held a great looming mouth of a cavern. Just outside this was a steam-driven mill of some sort, a clanking monster that belched great clouds and was serviced by half a dozen men. A sullen stream poured from the mill’s side, staining the meadow to Falconer’s right with a foul yellow runoff.

Falconer threaded his way around the derelict fence. He was almost to the main cabin before two men leading horses hauling logs spotted him and shouted a warning.

A bulldog of a man clumped steel-toed boots across the cabin porch. “Where’s my guards?”

“I was wondering the very same thing.” Falconer slipped easily from the saddle, then took his time straightening his back. “Nice to see the sun again, isn’t it?”

The man was huge and utterly bald, his head as big as a flesh-covered kettle. Below his ears sprouted a ferocious beard that spilled down his chest. “I’ll have their guts for garters! Who might you be, stranger?”

“Well you should ask that, sir.” This one matched Falconer for size and had fists like rock hammers. Falconer heard the horses trotting up behind him and hoped Theo had spotted the man bearing down from the mill. Falconer started up the cabin steps. “You must be Mr. Joyner.”

“You just hold on there!”

“Any chance of a cup of coffee, sir? My throat is awful parched.”

“Get yourself down off my porch! Jem! Bring me my—”

Falconer’s punch should have taken the man down, but Joyner moved swiftly for such a huge man, ducking under Falconer’s fist and coming up with a haymaker of his own. Falconer stepped back, deflecting the swing with his elbow. His forearm went completely numb. Falconer realized with dismay that what he had taken for a blanket of fat was solid muscle.

Joyner’s beard split in a bellow of rage. He punched Falconer solid in the chest, or tried to, but Falconer bulled down and caught the blow on his shoulder. Joyner showed surprise that Falconer did not go down. Falconer, however, was rocked by the man’s power.

Joyner opened his arms with another roar, intending to envelop Falconer while he was still recovering. Falconer did not avoid the man. Instead, he used Joyner’s forward motion against him, taking a full-fisted grip upon Joyner’s beard and lunging backward, scrabbling across the porch’s plank flooring. Faster he moved, pulling the off-balance man along with him. By the time Joyner realized what was happening, it was too late. Falconer aimed the man’s shiny bald head straight for the corner post.