"Benjamin Carter! Open this door!"
Daniel looked at the old printer.
"Get to the depot."
Benjamin hesitated.
"What about you?"
Daniel drew his revolver.
"I'll keep him busy."
Benjamin stared.
"Daniel—"
"Go."
The old man nodded.
Then he disappeared through the rear entrance.
Daniel stood alone in the dark printing shop.
He looked at the wanted poster visible through the front window.
Five hundred dollars.
That was what Voss believed his life was worth.
Daniel smiled without humor.
Then he opened the door.
Wade Briggs stood on the porch with two armed men.
His expression changed when he saw Daniel.
"Well, well."
Daniel leaned against the doorframe.
"Evening, Wade."
Briggs grinned.
"Thought you'd be halfway to Mexico by now."
"Never liked the heat."
Briggs looked past him.
"Where's Carter?"
"Out."
"Doing what?"
"Printing."
Briggs's smile faded.
"What?"
Daniel stepped aside.
"Come in and see."
Briggs entered cautiously.
The other men followed.
The room was dark.
The press stood silent.
Empty paper trays lay beside the counter.
Briggs looked around.
"Where are the documents?"
Daniel folded his arms.
"What documents?"
Briggs struck him across the face.
Daniel staggered backward.
Blood filled his mouth.
He straightened slowly.
Briggs smiled.
"Don't make this difficult."
Daniel wiped his lip.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Briggs grabbed his collar.
"Where are the women?"
Daniel stared at him.
"Safe."
"Where?"
"Far away from you."
Briggs punched him again.
Daniel fell against the counter.
One of the gunmen laughed.
Briggs leaned closer.
"Mr. Ashcroft wants you alive."
Daniel looked up.
"That's unfortunate."
"Why?"
"Because I don't much care what he wants."
Briggs struck him a third time.
Daniel tasted blood.
He could have drawn his revolver.
He could have fought.
But every minute Briggs spent here was another minute the papers moved toward the railroad depot.
So Daniel endured it.
He let Briggs believe he was winning.
Outside, the courthouse clock struck midnight.
One bell.
Then another.
Then another.
Daniel counted each stroke.
At the twelfth, he smiled.
Briggs noticed.
"What's funny?"
Daniel looked at him.
"Nothing."
Briggs narrowed his eyes.
"You're hiding something."
Daniel nodded.
"Yes."
"What?"
He glanced toward the window.
"You're too late."
Briggs turned.
Across the street, a boy ran past carrying a stack of printed pages.
Behind him came another.
Then a woman.
Then two men.
Papers appeared on doorsteps.
Under shop doors.
Pinned to fences.
Slipped beneath the courthouse entrance.
Within minutes, the town began waking.
Lights appeared in windows.
People stepped onto porches.
Voices rose.
Briggs stared.
"What the hell is happening?"
Daniel looked at him.
"The truth."
Briggs rushed toward the door.
Daniel caught his arm.
The gunman spun.
Daniel struck him hard across the jaw.
Briggs crashed into the counter.
One of his men reached for a revolver.
Daniel drew first.
"Don't."
The man froze.
The second gunman raised his hands.
Daniel backed toward the rear door.
Briggs struggled to his feet.
"You son of a—"
Daniel fired into the ceiling.
Plaster rained down.
"Stay where you are."
He disappeared into the alley.
Briggs shouted after him.
But Daniel was already running.
Across Silver Creek, people were reading.
Margaret Henderson stood beneath a streetlamp with a printed sheet trembling in her hands.
She saw her husband's name.
She saw the forged deed.
She saw the amount Voss had paid to acquire their farm.
Tears streamed down her face.
At the blacksmith's shop, old Samuel Reed read the article aloud to three neighbors.
At the church, Reverend Collins pinned a copy to the notice board.
At the boardinghouse, a group of railroad workers passed the pages from hand to hand.
And inside the sheriff's office, Nathaniel Crowe sat alone at his desk.
A printed sheet lay before him.
He had read it three times.
His name appeared in the second column.
Beside it was a payment record.
Five hundred dollars from Caleb Voss.
Dated four years earlier.
Crowe stared at the paper.
Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
Inside lay a small wooden box.
He lifted the lid.
A child's photograph rested within.
A little girl with dark curls and a missing front tooth.
His daughter, Emily.
She had died three years earlier.
Or so the town believed.
Crowe touched the photograph.
His hands trembled.
He remembered the day Voss had come to his house.
The threats.
The promises.
The terrible bargain.
Do what I ask, Sheriff, and your daughter stays alive.
Crowe closed his eyes.
For four years, he had obeyed.
He had signed false warrants.
Ignored complaints.
Protected Voss's men.
He had told himself he was doing it for Emily.
But now Samuel Price was dead.
And Daniel Mercer was being hunted.
Crowe looked at the newspaper.
Then at his daughter's photograph.
He whispered, "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
A knock sounded at the door.
Crowe looked up.
"Come in."
A deputy entered.
"Sheriff?"
"What?"
"There's trouble outside."
Crowe sighed.
"What kind?"
The deputy swallowed.
"People are gathering."
Crowe stood.
"How many?"
"Dozens."
He moved toward the window.
Outside, men and women filled the street.
Farmers.
Shopkeepers.
Widows.
Railroad workers.
People who had spent years lowering their eyes whenever Caleb Voss passed.
Now they stood together beneath the courthouse clock.
Some held printed papers.
Others carried lanterns.
Margaret Henderson stood at the front.
She looked up toward the sheriff's window.
Then she raised the newspaper above her head.
"WE WANT ANSWERS!"
The crowd roared.
Crowe stepped back.
The deputy looked frightened.
"What do we do?"
Crowe stared at the people.