Tall, silver-haired, polished boots.

The kind of man towns put in photographs.

“Problem?”

Caleb smiled thinly.

“Just asking after family.”

Vale looked at him carefully.

“Horn.”

Again, recognition.

Caleb saw it.

The sheriff’s pleasant expression remained unchanged.

“You Sarah’s brother?”

Caleb’s blood chilled.

“So you remember her.”

Vale nodded.

“Everyone did.”

“Where is she?”

The sheriff’s smile faded.

“Dead.”

Caleb did not blink.

“How?”

“Fever.”

“When?”

“1885.”

“Where’s she buried?”

Vale paused.

That pause answered everything.

Caleb stepped closer.

“You remember a woman seventeen years ago, remember her brother’s surname immediately, remember the year she died, but not where she’s buried?”

Every person in the lobby had stopped talking.

Vale lowered his voice.

“You should leave Redstone.”

Caleb smiled.

“There it is.”

The sheriff rested a hand on his gun.

“You don’t understand what you walked into.”

“That’s what people keep telling me.”

At eight forty-five, the opera house filled.

Caleb sat in the balcony.

Ruth entered through a servants’ door wearing a dress stolen from a laundry line.

From above, Caleb watched Sheriff Vale arrive.

So did Judge Merritt.

Banker Hollis Wade.

Mayor Thurston.

Dr. Phillips.

Reverend Cole.

Half the town’s respectable men.

Caleb felt something inside him go cold.

At nine fifteen, the comedy began.

At nine thirty, twenty-three men quietly left their seats.

They did not exit onto the street.

They passed through a velvet curtain near the stage.

Caleb followed.

Behind the curtain was a locked staircase.

He used the brass key.

It opened.

The stairs descended beneath the building.

Music faded above him.

At the bottom was a corridor lit by gas lamps.

Caleb heard laughter.

Glasses clinking.

Then a man’s voice.

“Lot Twelve.”

Caleb froze.

Through a cracked door, he saw a large cellar furnished like a gambling room.

Forty men sat facing a platform.

On that platform stood a terrified blond girl in a blue dress.

She looked thirteen.

Caleb’s hand tightened around his revolver.

A man beside the platform called, “Healthy. No family. Newly arrived from Santa Fe.”

Ruth appeared silently beside Caleb.

Her face had gone white.

“That’s Crane’s auctioneer.”

“Where’s Crane?”

“I don’t see him.”

The auctioneer said, “Opening at sixty.”

Caleb stepped through the door.

“Sold.”

Every head turned.

The room went silent.

Caleb walked toward the platform.

Sheriff Vale stood.

“Mr. Horn.”

Caleb drew his gun.

“Hands where I can see them.”

Men began reaching beneath coats.

Then another sound came from behind the room.

A shotgun cocking.

Ruth stood on a staircase opposite Caleb, aiming down.

“I’d listen.”

The girl on the platform started crying.

Caleb climbed up and wrapped a curtain around her shoulders.

“Where are the others?”

The auctioneer laughed nervously.

“You’re making a serious mistake.”

Caleb shot the floor between his boots.

“Where?”

“Back rooms.”

Ruth ran.

Caleb kept the room covered.

Sheriff Vale slowly raised his hands.

“You think one gun changes anything?”

“No.”

Caleb looked around.

“Names do.”

He pulled the stolen ledger pages from his coat.

The room changed.

Several men stopped breathing.

Caleb saw guilt instantly.

Judge Merritt whispered, “Where did you get those?”

“Girl you left to die.”

Someone bolted for the door.

Caleb fired into the ceiling.

“Sit down.”