Right before the sun climbed over the hills and set fire to the sky, Point had his horse ready for his ride out to the McKay place. The air was still cool, that brief window before the Arizona heat turned everything to brass and dust. Everyone else was sleeping sound—the saloon quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the soft snoring drifting through the walls.
Everyone except Addy.
Addy was acting like he may never return, her movements quick and anxious as she hovered near the stable. Point humored the girl but thought it a little silly that she was so emotional over a day's ride.
"You do remember that I will be just over that ridge, right?" Point said to Addy, gesturing toward the low hills barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness.
She responded with, "I am certain that you gunna be dead if you keep pokin that bear. I know you won't be able to let me know when you leave THAT way."
Point took a second to connect the dots that she had laid out. His jaw tightened.
Point said, "You ain't comin with me. I can see the way you're lookin at me. I'll never forgive myself if any y'all get cut down."
The veins in Addy's neck pushed through her skin as her blood pressure rose, her face flushing in the dim light. "So you can just go out and get killed and that's fine with you? What about me? After they finish you off, who you suppose they will be looking for next?"
Point focused his full attention onto Addy, his hands stopping their work with the saddlebags. He needed to reinforce his position before this got out of hand.
"Look darlin, y'all wanted my help, so this is my show. You gunna follow what I say love or you're gunna be the one who blows my entire plan. How am I gunna make a run at Cyrus when I got you in tow?"
Addy's head drops down as low as she can hang it, her shoulders curling inward.
Point raises his finger to her chin and lifts her head until her eyes meet his. "Tell you what, every night between eleven and twelve I will make my way back here to say goodnight. Then you know I will still be here to fight another day. How that do?"
Addy's eyes soften and a smile shines through her frustration, breaking across her face like sunrise.
"Now run inside. Anyone see me here with you they might kill us both."
Addy backs away slowly, keeping her eyes locked on Point as he ties the last of his things down and fastens his saddle bags shut. The leather creaks under his fingers, buckles clicking into place.
As Addy backs away, she fails to remember there was a shovel leaning against the small fence that ran the lot of the saloon. Her left foot caught it and she stumbled over her own feet, arms windmilling.
Point stopped when he heard the noise but did not look up so Addy could keep her dignity. He kept his eyes fixed on the saddle horn. For a fraction of a second a slight grin broke through his rough exterior.
Addy got herself together as fast as she could, face flushed with embarrassment, then spun around to finish the walk inside. She turned at the last second to watch Point mount his horse, one smooth motion that made it look easy.
Addy's heart skipped a beat as she watched him turn the horse and ride off, his silhouette cutting through the grey morning light as the sky began to brighten behind the hills.
Point followed the same path that he had taken the first time out to the old McKay place. The ride was quiet, just the steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the awakening sounds of the desert—birds starting their calls, lizards skittering across rocks warming in the climbing sun.
He pitched a small tent that he had gotten from Conor next to the remains of the house, the duck canvas flapping in the breeze until he staked it down proper. He got some wood together for a fire that he would need through the night—mesquite and dried scrub, enough to last him two or three days if he was careful. Then he took his camp shovel back to the edge of the lot line to dig a latrine.
He had no idea how long he would be at this location, but he figured it's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.
With the third shovel scoop that he dug, he hit something hard.
It wasn't a root—it made a blunt, clang when the metal edge struck it. The way an animal trap would clang if it had gotten buried somehow. The sound was sharp, out of place in the soft dirt.
He pulled it from the ground, dirt cascading off its surface, and was completely at a loss as to what he had found.
It was a triangle. About the size and thickness of his revolver, heavy in his palm. The sides were thin and smooth, almost polished despite the years of burial. The front looked the same way the back looked—raised from each point running to the middle, and each side seemed cut at an angle to the edge. Precise. Intentional.
He had never seen anything like it and had no idea what it could possibly be for.
It was much heavier than it looked, the weight surprising for something so small. It was old and dirty, caked with layers of earth that had compacted over God knows how many years. No idea how old this thing could be, but he thought that someone took a lot of time making this thing so nice and smooth it must be important. Must have meant something to somebody.
He walked it over to where his tent was, turning it over in his hands, examining the strange angles and perfect symmetry. He wedged it into the corner remains of the house for the time being, tucking it between two charred beams where it would be safe.
Then he went back to digging his latrine, but his mind kept drifting back to that triangle.
Point got a couple rocks and a few large pieces of bark and made himself a nice place to sit in front of his tent and the fire that he had not yet lit. The makeshift seat was crude but serviceable, positioned where he could see anyone approaching from any direction except north. He pulled out his mouth organ and started to play a sad tune that he knew, the notes drifting across the empty lot and down toward the water.
Waiting for someone to show up and chase him off the property.
That someone never came.
Meaning that Addy forgot to make a trip to the police station, or Rex was so worried about what would happen that he kept it to himself in hopes that Point would just give up and move on his own. He thought that Addy was in no frame of mind to forget about Point, so it must have been Rex that was the one sitting on his hands. Playing it safe. Hoping the problem would solve itself.
Once noon had passed, the sun high and brutal overhead, Point was sure that nobody was coming.
He pulled out some jerky and started to comb through some of the remains in the house, kicking through charred boards and collapsed beams. Maybe he would get lucky and find something that had been missed up until then. Something that would explain why this burned-out plot of land was worth killing over.
Point had a thought.
He took a walk down by the water to see if there was anything of interest there. The water seemed to be about two or three feet deep at the shore, clear enough to see the rocky bottom. The distance from one bank to the other was short enough that a man could cross it on horseback without much trouble. Unless the current sped up downstream, it should be no issue. The gentle burble of the stream was the only sound besides the wind.
He walked over to where his horse was tied and grabbed a tin plate he had from his saddle bag. He wanted to see if maybe there was gold in the water here, so he did a little amateur panning to see if there was any at the bottom.
He dipped in about fifteen or twenty times, swirling the sediment, watching the water carry away the lighter material. He had found a few flecks but nothing worth killing over. In total he came up with maybe forty or fifty cents worth—tiny glints of yellow that caught the light but wouldn't amount to much.
For a common man this could maybe bring in enough to feed a family if they worked it day after day, but this wasn't anywhere near a real gold source. This wasn't why McKay died. He let the static fade and kept looking for theories he could jerk a pistol to.
Chasing the Indians off would be a good idea if someone wanted to mine from there, but what was it that McKay had or knew that made this spot valuable? Could it be the water access itself? Sure, chase off the Indians because nobody wants to work at a place that is under a possible threat of a raid. This could be a spot for setting up a huge textile mill—steady water source, flat land, close enough to town for transport. The girls said it was given to some bunny company from the city.
Just as Point was putting the pieces together, he thought he should go have another chat with the Indians that lived just up the way. See if they knew anything about men sniffing around, asking questions, making threats.
Point jumped on his horse and headed out to see what they had to add to all of this.
Just as Point was in viewing distance of the camp, he was able to see that four or five white men on horses were talking with someone from the camp. It wasn't the Chief—that guy was old and not much for moving unless he had to. The conversation looked tense, the white men's horses stamping and shifting.
Just as he had started to guess what member of that tribe they were talking with, the white man in front with a huge black beard pulled out a gun and shot the Brave in the head without provocation.
The crack of the gunshot echoed across the valley.
Point flinched at what he had just watched happen, his gut twisting.
He charged the camp without thinking, spurring his horse hard to prevent any more bloodshed. The other men that were with the man with the beard opened fire on whoever had been watching the interaction—indiscriminate, methodical killing. Men, women, children were all being cut down in front of Point as he rode faster and faster, the sound of gunfire cracking like thunder, smoke causing to turn ereryone into mere silhouettes.
The smoke peeled off their hats in dirty sulfer curls as Point reached the camp. Nearly every Indian that was there had been killed. Bodies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking into the earth. The silence after the gunfire was deafening.
Point started in, his voice shaking with rage, "What the fuck are you doing? These people are no threat to you. Why are you doing this?"
A slow, buck-toothed, cross-eyed man on the side started up, his voice dripping with misplaced authority. "Well lookie wht we got ear? Ain't dis da feller dat what was teld ta go?"
Talking like he was under the authority of God himself but having just as much trouble conveying that authority as he did forming a proper sentence.
Another man spoke up, "Yea, das him alrigh."
The stupid-looking one says, "I think that Mr. Cyrus gunna wanna talk ach you. Yall best put dis on so ya look real prudy fer Mr. Cyrus."
All the rest of the men pulled out their guns and aimed at Point, hammers clicking back in unison.
The stupid-looking one threw down some rope so Point could tie his own hands up. "Befer ya put thata on, gimme yall guns dare. My brother got da drop so don't be doin nuthen stupid now."
Point handed over his guns, his jaw tight, and said, "You would know best. I wouldn't think of tryin to put one over on a master such as yourself."
Point did what they said on the off chance there was anyone left alive in the camp—anyone hiding, anyone playing dead who might survive if these men rode off satisfied with their prisoner.
The stupid one says, his chest puffing out, "Das rite, I is a master, ima glad yall kin see dat."
The men he was with all started to laugh, rough and cruel, as the stupid one looked at them confused—not understanding he was the joke.
With attention on Point, they may forget to look deeper for survivors.
He was right.
After he had tied his own hands together, they took the other end of the rope and started to torture Point slowly, dragging him behind a horse at a walk, letting him stumble and fall and get dragged through the dirt and rocks.
The posse trotted at a pace that was far too fast for Point to walk. They had even let him fall and kept moving, the rope jerking him forward as he tried to scramble back to his feet. His shoulders and hips were dragging on the ground, hitting a rock here and there—sharp impacts that sent jolts of pain through his body. He was sure that his ass would be well bruised by morning.
He was also fairly sure that he would not be able to keep his promise that he had made to Addy.
By late afternoon they put an end to slowly killing Point and seemed to be arriving at some large estate of some kind. Through the dust and his own blurred vision, he also saw in the distance a very large group moving in from the east. It almost looked like an army advancing.
What the hell would a group that size be doing out here? Some group from the war that was never told the war was over? Here to level this estate?
Point let his mind run around. There was little his body could do at the moment, so his mind was the only thing left to run free.
The riders started climbing up a high ridge, the horses picking their way over rocks and loose shale. As they crested the top, Point could see the full layout of the estate spread out below them in the valley. From this elevated position, everything was visible—the compound, the surrounding land, the approach roads.
There was a giant adobe wall that surrounded the estate, towering and imposing against the reds and dying golds sunset desert landscape. It had four gaps in the wall—two on the west side and two on the east side. Both were guarded by four men each, two at the front of each opening and two on the inside. That's sixteen doormen alone.
Tipping at this place must be a nightmare, Point thought.
The riders began their descent, pulling Point down the rocky slope behind them. Once they had gotten inside the wall, the men stopped in front of the door of the house. Point lifted his head, dirt and blood caking his face. His tongue thick and dry, desert dust weighted in his lungs. He took in the structure before him.
The house was five or six stories high—a Gothic Revival palace that had no business existing in the middle of the Arizona Territory. White and gray brick rose in ornate tiers, each level more elaborate than the last, with intricate stonework and carved details that would've made European artisans weep. Arched and round windows covered almost half of the facade, hundreds of them, their glass gleaming like dark eyes in the fading light. Some were tall and narrow, others wide and mullioned, creating a rhythm of light and shadow across the entire structure.
A bright red terracotta roof crowned the monstrosity, sweeping and undulating across the top like frozen waves. Dozens of slender spires shot straight up from the roofline, needle-sharp and perfectly spaced, their gilded tips catching the last rays of sun. They formed a perfect yet opposite complement to the curves of the arched windows below—where the windows bent and welcomed, the spires thrust upward and repelled, creating a tension that made the whole building feel alive.
There were two huge domes, one on the eastern side and one on the northern side, their copper surfaces oxidized to green in places, bronze in others. They rose above the rest of the structure like the crowns of twin kings, ribbed and topped with ornamental finials that gleamed against the darkening sky.
How the hell did anyone build this thing out in the middle of nowhere, Point thought. This would have taken two hundred years to make.
The man with the beard had gotten down off his horse and coiled up the rope, pulling Point to him hand over hand like hauling in a fish. Once he had reached the black-bearded man, the man said, "You have anythin ya wanna tell me before I take ya ta see da man?"
Point looked him in the eyes and said, "Yeah, remind me never to use the valet here."
The big man had no idea what Point meant, but his tone suggested it was an insult. The man punched Point in the nose—a sharp crack that sent blood streaming down his face—and started walking him up the stairs without waiting for Point to reclaim his position from the punch.
The man walked in the house without knocking, his boots echoing on marble floors. Point followed wherever the rope pulled him, stumbling and trying to keep his feet under him. Four men that seemed to need help from each other to piss followed him in. Nobody shut the door behind them—it stood open, letting the desert heat seep into the cool interior.
They pulled him through three rooms before they got to the room where a man was sitting at a desk. The rooms were opulent—carved wood, expensive rugs, paintings in gilded frames. The kind of wealth that didn't belong anywhere near this dusty territory.
The man lifted his head.
No surprise at all, it was Cyrus.
Cyrus walked up to Point, his footsteps measured and deliberate, and said, "Thought you were told to leave town? This does not look like you have left town…" He paused, examining Point like a specimen. "Is there anything you have to say for yourself?"
Point looked up, blood still dripping from his nose, and said, "Yes I do, how many candles you go through per day in a place like this? Jesus Christ."
Cyrus nodded to the big man and the big man planted his fist into Point's gut, driving the air from his lungs that desert dust had not yet claimed, causing Point to double over.
"It seems that the journey here has not taken anything out of you. I will have to remedy that." The unprincipled clocktower winding in his head.
As Cyrus walked away, Point wanted to keep him talking. "Y…, You mean like the innocent people you just had killed?" Point still trying to find his breath.
...Oh, shit.
Point thought. Maybe he wasn't aware that Point had seen that done. He may have just gotten himself killed. Wouldn't be the first time that happened, I guess.
Cyrus turned back slowly, his expression unreadable. "Unless you consider vagrancy a crime."
Point knew there was no point arguing—this dick just made his blood boil. If he was going to die, he was going to take what shots he could now. "Not a hangable offense."
Cyrus was getting close to where Point was with patience. He fired back, his voice cold and sharp, "I guess that depends on who one has for law now, doesn't it?"
Point to Point.
Cyrus just revealed a little more than he wanted to. Clearly the sheriff was a coward and a sellout.
Point kept on him as long as he was so chatty. "You're not concerned that someone from outside the town like me is going to ruin your bunny farm?"
Suddenly, one of the guards from outside walked in the room and paused a moment before he spoke, clearly unsure if he should interrupt. The dark man, very slowly, opened his mouth and started to speak. "There are people at the gate who wish to see you, sir."
Cyrus made a motion to the boys holding Point and said, "Get him strung up in the dungeon."
Point attempted to push a few more buttons. "Dungeon? What the hell is the dungeon for? Is there a troll infestation? Were you raised by cannibals?"
Cyrus was done entertaining Point and made his way to the door, his footsteps echoing away.
Before Point was out of sight, he saw a nasty, black twig of a man standing at the door, taking his hat off to speak to Cyrus. The man's face was gaunt, skeletal almost, his suit hanging off his frame like a prepped corpse, zombie like.
The men dragged Point down past the wine cellar—racks of expensive bottles lining the walls—to the second level basement where there were actual cells with bars and doors and everything. Stone walls, iron fixtures, the whole medieval setup.
Point started talking to the air because he knew the boys that had him wanted to get back upstairs. Given the option, Point would join them. He was sure this was important stuff happening up there.
Point started in, "You guys signed up for the jousting tournament next weekend?"
He got no response
"When the prize is awarded, does he have a daughter or something you can get your hands around, or you guys take turns wearing the veil?"
The boys looked at each other but gave nothing back, their faces blank.
"I just figured you guys look so inbred, this would give y'all an excuse to fuck each other guilt free."
The boys slung the rope he was tied with over a large metal pipe that ran the width of the dungeon ceiling, the rope scraping against rust and old paint. As soon as they tied the rope off with Point hanging an inch or two above the ground—his toes just barely grazing the granite floor—the bigger guy walked over to Point and knocked him out cold with one heavy fist to the temple.
Everything went black.