Patrick nodded. “It’ll have to be Union boys, assuming Scurry’s got some left.”
John scoffed. “The payoff will make believers out of ‘em. They’ll be sworn in by sundown.”
Patrick nodded. “Let’s find a foreman,” he said. “If anyone can corral a team, it’ll be their foreman.”
“Twelve diggers, I reckon?” John looked around in a knowing way. “Twelve who can keep their mouths shut. Ain’t no way we’re gettin’ that ore out of the parish otherwise.”
“We’ll have to go about it carefully,” Patrick continued. “Make sure none of ’em are friendly with the coppers.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult,” John said and clapped his hand over my shoulder again. Already celebrating.
All around me, the walls spoke.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIXPATRICK
They walked back to the pub in broad daylight.
A risk, certainly, though they’d not yet passed a copper. A blessing. He supposed with the terranium in such short supply, there wasn’t much need for them. Likely they were holed up somewhere, waiting out the winter and keeping their boots clean.
Scurry moved with a sort of lethargy not found in Kenton Hill. The Crafters went about their business with invisible millstones tied to their ankles, kicking through the slush.
A church bell rang. In Kenton, they’d repurposed them. It must be Sunday.
Nina’s eyes lifted to the steeple in the distance and held. He wanted to ask why she was smiling but thought better of it.
Back to the hovel and its bar, past a skeletal dog tied to a standpipe growling at them as they went by. John would charm the bartender into giving over names. They’d make their careful plans from there.
They would have to tread lightly, send notes of an ambiguous nature while they felt out the potential in these Scurry miners. Likely, it would take days to confirm a decent crew. Their one good fortune was that Shop was miles behind. No signs yet of his approach.
But that window was closing. Any day, a train would come clattering through the hills.
For now, though, there were no coppers, no infantry, and the townspeoplekept their heads down and minded their own. Patrick thought it all seemed rather too easy.
John opened the door to the pub ahead of them and stepped inside. Patrick let Nina in before him, then he followed, pulling his cap off and shaking out his wet hair.
The door was pushed closed behind him. A lock slid into place.
A miner’s shiver, arriving too late.
He looked up slowly.
The bar wasn’t as vacant as it had been the night before. Now, there was a man on every stool. A weapon on every man. All of them turned in the direction of Patrick, Nina, and John.
Spitting tobacco hit the pots, barely touched lager turned stale. A man larger than the rest sat closest, his legs resting on the table, boots clad with mud. He had a bulbous forehead, two missing teeth, and a thick brown mustache. The others sat back from him as though they guarded his flanks, like a resting pack.
Patrick’s chest tightened. An ambush.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket as he stepped forward. Made it look like he only meant to approach John for a light as he stepped in front of Nina.
He held his hand out, and his father slapped a matchbox into it.
Patrick lit the stub, then shook out the flame.
“Boys,” he said, releasing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
The pack leader let loose a groan and pulled his feet off the table. “Now that’s funny, ain’t it?” he asked his men. “?’Cause we was waitin’ to ask you the very same.” He stood, and Patrick saw that he was taller than even him, than Gunner.
Patrick clicked his tongue. It wasn’t clear yet if he recognized any of them. “Visitin’,” he said simply.
