After Jupiter returned the stolen slave to her husband, he made his way back to the plantation—now burned to the ground.
He dug through the charred wood that still smoldered over the basement of that monument to slavery. Jupiter didn't care about any of it. Not the house. Not the ruins. Not the ash.
He took a sheet of cloth he'd bought in town and wrapped the remains of his brother inside it. As much of him as he could find anyway. From the farmhouse that was still standing, he pulled an old shovel and dug a hole three feet deep on the eastern side of the property.
He buried his brother on the same land they had spent their childhood on.
Jupiter fashioned a cross from wood salvaged from the fire and planted it into the dirt. Then he turned back toward the remains of the house.
He dug until he found the old basement. From there, he found the door Lucius had used to escape. Jupiter followed the brick-lined corridor until it ended.
He was standing inside a pair of storm cellar doors. They looked unsecured.
He cracked one open, half-expecting a trap. Hell, at this point an uncaged lion wouldn't have surprised him. He stayed ready for anything.
He placed his hands on the wood. It felt fairly new.
Jupiter leaned his weight into it and moved slowly. When the doors separated just enough, he pressed one side of his face to the cold, damp wood. To get sight on any possible situation that lie beyond. Then he switched sides and pressed the other cheek against the door.
Outside, he saw only one man—leaning, smoking a cigar.
The man was healed the same way Jupiter was, but Jup knew he was at a disadvantage. He wold have to lift the door high enough to get out. By then the man would have enough time to get ten or 12 rounds off forsure. The underground path was fairly straight. It ran along the far side of the cotton crops, and Jupiter had a real good idea how to reach it from above.
He made his way back through the tunnel the same way he'd come.
As Jupiter crawled out of the smoldering remains of the house, his foot slipped. A chunk of burned wood struck what was left of the chimney. A few bricks tumbled loose—and then the ground began to shake.
Nearly a third of the tunnel collapsed just as Jupiter reached for his horse.
He looked at the animal and said, "Sure glad you didn't follow me in there." The horse felt no need to respond.
Jup climbed onto his horse and rode down the drive—one he felt he'd traveled far too many times since all this began.
He hadn't harbored any hard feelings toward Lucius after the slaves were freed. None of the slaves from that plantation had. They were just happy to be free. Happy to choose where they went. Happy to decide what they did.
But now, Jupiter carried a rage that only the death of another man could satisfy.
Badge or no badge, that son of a bitch killed my brother, Jupiter thought. And that is something that will not go unanswered.
At the first crossing, Jupiter turned left and followed the crop line. He made another left and rode for what felt like miles. Then another.
Ahead, he saw the stable house.
The same man from earlier was leaning against it, cigar still burning.
Jupiter tucked his giant Bowie knife into the waistband of his pants and stiffened his arm over the blade. When he reached the stable house, he dismounted and rounded the corner on foot.
He stiffened one leg and dragged his foot as he approached.
"You gotta help me, sa," Jupiter said. "Please… you gotta help me."
As he drew closer, he reached under his arm with his good hand, like he was holding his side.
"You gotta help me," he went on. "There's a man back dar. He gonna kill us all. He got a huge knife."
The man hurried over and tried to prop Jupiter up.
Jupiter slid the blade into him—between the third and fourth rib—straight up into his heart and lungs.
The man tried to gasp. There was no air to be had.
In Jupiter's mind, that man had never been human. No emotion passed through Jupiter as he discared the body with less care than a used wad of chewing tobacco. In Jupiter's eyes he worked for the devil himself.
He searched the stable house. There wasn't much to find. So he returned to the body. In one of the man's pockets, he found a name and an address.
It said where Lucius was heading.
Ohio.
Who he was meeting there—only Lucius and his band of whatever-the-hell knew. That would change soon enough.
Jupiter rode on to the next town to gather supplies.
He couldn't stand the thought of returning to the town near the plantation. The idea of that place made his skin crawl. Instead, he rode twenty-five miles until he reached a small town called Junesberry.
He'd always wondered who named these towns. Some names were fine. Others sounded like they were designed to keep people away. Maybe they were.
Junesberry had a general store and a gunsmith.
At the moment, that was all Jupiter gave a damn about.
He stepped into the general store and spoke with the old man behind the counter. Two men sat at the entrance, playing checkers. They looked up when Jupiter entered, then said nothing—just dropped their heads and returned to the game.
At the counter, Jupiter asked, "What manner of jerky you got here?"
As he reached for his wallet, his jacket shifted. Metal flashed.
The badge.
The register jockey raised a finger and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
He spun around and grabbed five glass jars from the shelf behind him.
Bear. Deer. Buffalo. Peccary. And last—and very much least—Meat.
Meat jerky could be anything. Anything that had once been alive. Now dead. Dried. Spiced.
Could be armadillo. Could be squirrel. Could be Thomas Jenkins—the eye doctor who went missing last week.
Thomas was a cranky little man. Never married. All the ladies in town were terrified of him. There was a decent chance someone killed him, hung pieces of him in the sun to dry, and sold him off to the general store as common sundries.
Jupiter doubted that was the case.
But it could be.
He spent a few extra pennies and bought the deer and buffalo. Low in fat. Good for you. Who knew what the fat content of Thomas Jenkins might've been? He probably wasn't grain-fed or grass-fed his whole life.
Jupiter picked up a few other things Finn used to carry.
Jup wasn't much of a talker. Finn was. Even when Jupiter didn't answer, Finn filled the space. Now that space was empty.
Or mostly.
"Jup, how 'bout some of these candy sticks?" Finn's voice echoed faintly. "They taste real good, and they give us some energy when we ride."
Jupiter found himself staring into the middle distance.
His eyes filled. A smile crossed his face—just for a second.
Then he shook himself free and returned to the present.
He paid for the goods and stepped outside. The two men at the door looked at him from the tops of their eyes but didn't move.
Jupiter loaded his supplies onto his horse.
Two doors down, he entered the gunsmith.
He bought three boxes of rifle shells for the two repeaters holstered behind his saddle. He also bought two hundred rounds for the pistols riding on each hip.
After he filled up his bandoleers, he made his way out of town and headed toward Ohio.
The trip itself was uneventful—which, for Jupiter, was far worse than a gunfight. Especially when there was no one left to talk with.
With the road stretching long and quiet ahead of him, he sometimes spoke to his horse just to hear a voice. The horse liked this very much. Over the passing days, that old animal was groomed, washed, and talked to more than he had been in his entire life. His coat shone. His ears stayed forward. He listened like a confidant.
Jupiter eventually found the address and scouted a secluded spot nearby where he could set up a makeshift camp, hidden from view. It was tucked into a low depression in the land, the earth rising around him in soft, uneven mounds. Thick brush, scrubby and wild, had grown dense here, weaving together like nature's own camouflage. The air smelled of dry earth and sage, a sharp scent that burned in the back of his throat.
The ground beneath his boots was soft with overgrown grass, but there were patches of hard-packed dirt where he'd set his feet, the remnants of old hoof prints left by wandering cattle. The brush grew thick enough to obscure the horizon, the low hills folding into one another like a maze, and no one would spot him from the road, not unless they were already looking for him. Here, in this forgotten patch of land, he could wait unnoticed—for as long as it took.
He knew Lucius had made it down that hold with one other man—but that man wasn't the one who had been waiting at the stables. Jupe figured Lucius could be traveling with any number of men now. Men who had his back. Or were paid, rather, to have his back.
He thought his rage would lessen as time went on. It didn't.
His vengeance only grew as the days wore on, sharpening instead of dulling. The more men Lucius rode with, the longer it would take him to reach this location. Jupiter was certain he hadn't missed him. He only needed to wait patiently, and the devil would appear.
The building was a crumbling relic, half-sunken into the earth like it had grown weary of standing. Its wooden frame was faded, bleached by the merciless sun until it looked like weathered bone. A few warped planks hung loose, barely clinging to their rusted nails, and the roof sagged in uneven spots, with patches of missing shingles where the wind had torn them away. Dust coated the windows, turning them into ghostly mirrors of the empty yard outside. The yard around it was a barren stretch of dirt, cracked and baked by the heat, with only a few patches of sparse, yellowing grass daring to grow.
A wagon now and then. A crate dropped off. The place was all but deserted.
He waited all the same.
Four days after Jupiter arrived, he finally saw Lucius ride in with about a dozen men. Jupiter kept his distance, careful never to be seen, never to let on that he was tracking them. The gang stayed inside that nearly empty building for three days. Every once in a while, a couple men would leave to get food or drink. Two trucks pulled up during that time, but there was no other movement.
Then, on the last day of their stay, a telegram was delivered to the Lucius clan.
Seconds after the delivery man left, the entire gang walked out, mounted up, and they road off.
Jupiter had to know what was in that telegram.
He raised his bandanna over his nose and lowered his hat until only a strip of his dark skin showed, his eyes burning through the shadow—hard, focused, carrying a streak of violence they had never held before.
After the men cleared out, Jupiter walked up and tried the door.
Locked. From the inside.
He pulled every bit of energy he had into his chest, raised his foot, and sent all of his force—from shoulders to spine to boot—through the locked doors. They flew open as if the building itself had lost pressure, like a vacuum snapping loose.
Inside sat one older man at a table. He jumped a full foot when the front doors exploded inward.
Taking in Jupiter's dress, the bandanna, the hat, the posture, the man's voice cracked with fear. "We got no money on site. This is a processing place. We got no money!"
"I don't want your damn money," Jupiter said. "I want information."
The man blinked, fear giving way to confusion. "From me? What could I know that is of value to anyone but me?"
Jupiter's eyes narrowed. "Those men that just left—they got a message. Wudit say?"
The fear rushed back into the man's face. "I have no idea. The message come in, Lucius tell the men to go. Not like he read it aloud to us all."
Jupiter could see it plain as day—the man was far too scared to lie. He would have sold out his own mother if it meant staying alive.
Jupiter knew there was only one man, other than Lucius, who could answer his questions.
He made a beeline for the train station, leaving his scarf and hat just as they were. The station was a sturdy, bustling structure of brick and wood, freshly built but already showing signs of wear. Its tall, arched windows let in the afternoon light, casting long shadows on the polished wooden floors. A clock tower above the station's roof ticked loudly, marking the passage of time with an authority only train stations seemed to hold. The station's large, iron doors swung open with a loud creak, revealing an interior lined with polished wood counters and brass railings. Above the counters, old-fashioned signs hung on dark wood beams, guiding travelers to ticket booths or the telegraph office tucked in the back corner.
The telegraph office, a narrow room, with a heavy locked door, squeezed between the main waiting area and the platform, was where the real business happened. It had the sharp scent of ink and paper, with a machine that clicked incessantly, its wires running out the back to an unseen world. The air here felt like a locker room—charged, alive with the sound of communication and the hum of an impending journey. The faint smell of coal dust and oil lingered in the background, adding to the sense of purpose that filled the station.
He kicked in the door the same way he had at the last building.
His gun came out in his right hand and cocked in one fluid motion.
Before the operator could piece together what was happening, Jupiter told him to get the original feed from the last telegram that had come through. All telegram offices, once they received a "WIRE," filed away the original signal in case it was ever needed again. The operator would type out the message, glue or write it onto a postcard, and send it to its destination.
"I want you to read it to me," Jupe said. "If you lyen, I will be back to kill you and everyone in your family!"
The operator swallowed hard and told him the wire came from New York.
The sender was JOHN JACOB ASTOR III.
The message read: I am a silent partner, you have issues, you go to Arizona Territory and figure it out.
Jupiter didn't know who John Astor was. He didn't know what any of it truly meant.
What he did understand was that Lucius was taking his gang to Arizona Territory.
That wouldn't take long to track him down this time.
But it would be a much longer ride than Ohio.
He drew out a gun with his right hand and cocked it in one fluid motion. Before the operator could piece together what was going on, Jupiter told him to get the original feed from the last telegram that had come through. All telegram offices, once they had received a "WIRE," filed the original signal away in case it was needed later. The operator would type out what the signal was, and that message would be written or glued onto a postcard, then sent to the intended.
Jupe's voice was a low growl now. "I want you to read it to me! If you lyen, I will be back to kill you and everyone in your family!"
The operator's eyes went wide with terror, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He would have sold his own mother out if it meant saving his skin. "I... I don't know—" he stammered, voice cracking. "It came from New York. The sender was JOHN JACOB ASTOR III."
Jupiter's gaze never left him. The man trembled as he read, his hands shaking as he held the slip of paper. "The message… it read, 'I am a silent partner, you have issues, you go to Arizona Territory and figure it out.'"
Jupiter didn't know who John Astor was, nor did he care. What mattered was that Lucius was heading to Arizona Territory. The thought churned in Jupiter's gut. Tracking him down again wouldn't take long—but the ride this time? It would be much longer, and the land would be less forgiving than Ohio.