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stride.
    Nathaniel knew instantly that this man was Long Clay. The fellow’s height matched the nickname, and it was clear that he was not the type of person who desired children or remained near accidental gets, and thus was not the siblings’ father. The two long black pistols that jutted from his hips and his cold demeanor informed the world that he was a gunfighter and possibly a practitioner of less lawful trades.
    Before he agreed to travel with this type of man, Nathaniel would need certain assurances.
    Long Clay set his bundle inside the wagon canopy, beside a large black trunk. The wind moaned and sounded eerily like a miserable human being.
    Footsteps shook the slats beneath Nathaniel’s boots, and he turned back to face the doorway. A huge older man, wearing an untamed beard and gray overalls, emerged from the forge, followed by Brent.
    “Pa. This here’s Nathaniel Stromler. The gentleman who wired us.”
    Eyes that did not seem attached to anything rational stared out at the gentleman from a craggy canvas of inebriation, grief and hatred. In the leather holster that depended from John Lawrence Plugford’s waist sat a wide gauge sawed-off shotgun that had been covered with black paint.
    “Good morning,” Nathaniel said to the bestial face.
    The patriarch stared.
    Brent pointed to the book in the gentleman’s left hand. “What’s that?”
    “A Spanish novel entitled, La Playa de Sangre .”
    “You can read and understand it?”
    “I can. Choose any passage, and I shall translate it for you.”
    “I believe you and wouldn’t know if you were lyin’ anyhow.”
    Brent extricated a weathered wallet from the breast pocket of his father’s gray overalls and handed it over to Nathaniel. “Count ‘em, so you know it certain true.”
    John Lawrence Plugford stared.
    The thickness of the wallet told Nathaniel that it contained the promised amount, but he counted out the many, many small bills as he had been instructed. The bank notes were not freshly withdrawn from a bank, and the gentleman surmised that the variegated sum had been earned over a lengthy period of time and squirreled away.
    “The amount that you have promised lies therein.” Nathaniel handed the wallet back to Brent. “I will require half of my payment before our departure.”
    The older brother reached into the wallet, withdrew half of the notes and thrust them forward.
    Nathaniel was surprised by how willing the man was to give so much money to a stranger, and he deliberated on the motley bills and their owners. To take the proffered stack of crisp and wrinkled and bright and discolored notes was to agree to be in their employ.
    “Take it.” Brent shook the bills.
    John Lawrence Plugford stared terribly.
    “Before I accept any wages,” Nathaniel announced, “I must enquire after the details of the job for which I am being hired.”
    Without uttering a word, John Lawrence Plugford stormed off toward the wagon.
    Brent glanced at his father and returned his gaze to the gentleman. “You’re goin’ to reconnoiter for us. Do some investigatin’.”
    Dissatisfied by the vague explanation, Nathaniel asked, “Could you please be more specific?”
    “I’ll handle him.” The tall narrow man strode upon sharp black boots toward the forge.
    Brent, Stevie and the negro were still.
    Long Clay walked directly at Nathaniel, stopped when half of a yard of air hung between their faces and stared down coolly. “You won’t be asked to do anything unlawful.” He radiated the smells of cinders, oil and iron.
    Nathaniel drummed his fingers upon the book, found his strong baritone voice and employed it when he inquired, “Shall I have any part in facilitating unlawful acts?”
    “That’s our business,” responded Long Clay.
    “I would simply like to know to what end my—”
    “You work for us or you don’t,” stated the gunfighter. “We don’t answer to you.”
    Long Clay turned away and strode toward a tall black mare.
    In a voice