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cards and such whenever I’m over his way. I rode out to consult him. The Darkness didn’t reach as far as the Indian country, but he was already aware of it. Got an Indian boy with him said you raised.”
    “Redfeather.” Nel nodded.
    “The boy was about to come back here, he says, to tell you about it. I told them I’d had enough. I’m heading back to my people in Virginia, but I needed to find you and deliver the news. Redfeather says you can help.”
    Mister Bradshaw coughed deeply, finally seeming to remember the mug of cider cooling in his hand. He drained it in a long gulp.
    “That’s a strange story, Mister Bradshaw,” Nel said. “I know you’ve come far out of your journey to relay it to us. But … I’m not sure what we can do for you—”
    “You ain’t doing it for me,” Mister Bradshaw answered quickly, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m finished with Omphalosa. I feel the effects of the Darkness. It pulls on me. I’ve got this terrible urge to return, and many days in my travels I had to force myself not to turn back west. It works on you. The Darkness draws until I feel like some reverse moth—not longing for the flame but for the dark beyond.
    “I had to leave before … Going to start me a farm andhope the Darkness don’t reach the East. But it’s the people in Omphalosa. There’s still good people there. It’s them you’d be helping. They ain’t all like the ones that shot my brother. And if somebody don’t help them, there’s to be a lot more burying before it’s all done.”
    Nel turned to Buck, whose silver-streaked locks nearly hid his closed eyes.
    “Sir,” Ray began tentatively. “Were there any strangers in your town back when the Darkness started?”
    “Strangers? There’s workers for the mill, and I guess there’s always the rare traveler passing through.”
    “Men wearing bowler hats?”
    Mister Bradshaw snorted. “I don’t keep track of the fashion of everyone who sets foot in Omphalosa.”
    “Ray,” Nel said, frowning.
    “You know what I’m asking, Nel,” Ray said, his voice respectful and calm.
    “There could be another explanation for all this,” Nel said.
    Then Buck said to Mister Bradshaw in his gravelly voice, “I think what young Ray is asking is, are there agents who ever work in Omphalosa?”
    “Agents? Like Pinkerton detectives?” asked Mister Bradshaw.
    Buck nodded.
    “Well, there’s a man who built a mill a decade or so back. That’s why them foreign workers been coming in. He had a few detectives overseeing the construction to make sure there weren’t no local trouble with the business being started.”
    Nel gripped his knees, glaring at Buck and refusing to look at Ray.
    “Come to think of it,” Mister Bradshaw began, but broke into a wracking cough. “Those Pinkertons …” His coughing got louder and his face turned a darker gray. “Those agents …,” he tried again, but could not get the words out.
    “They … they …” Bradshaw slipped from his chair, but not before Ray caught him. Bradshaw’s horrible cough grew deeper and wetter.
    “Marisol!” Nel barked, getting to his feet and clapping his hand against Bradshaw’s back. “Get that jug of water.”
    Marisol rushed to grab the crock and filled Bradshaw’s mug. But Bradshaw could not drink the water, his coughing grew so fierce.
    “The agents …” He choked again. Before he brought his handkerchief over his mouth, a splattering of blood hit Ray on the back of his hand. Bradshaw looked up at Ray and choked, “They … wore … bowlers.”
    Bradshaw’s eyes rolled, and he passed out.
    “Ray, Buck,” Nel ordered. “Get him on that cot. Bring me damp rags.”
    Ray stared at the speckle of blood on his hand.
    “Ray!” Nel barked.
    Ray touched his finger to the blood.
    “What is it?” Nel asked.
    Ray looked at Nel in shock, dabbing his finger across the blood. He sniffed it and held his finger up. The smear was not red, but dark, inky black.