Katherine shades her eyes and looks around. “Oh my. Is that a barrier wall?”
She points in the same direction as the ridge, and I shake my head. “It can’t be. A wall that large . . . how could they maintain it?”
Mr. Redfern returns to where Katherine and I stand, and he gives us a quick bow. “My apologies, ladies.”
I snort. “You kidnapped us and dragged us to the middle of nothing, and you’re apologizing for putting a hurting on Jackson? You’re a strange man, Mr. Redfern.”
He gives me what I’ve come to think of as his death glare and turns to Katherine. “If you would please follow me, Sheriff Snyder is waiting to meet you,” he says, completely ignoring me.
We make our way down the street, our passage kicking up dust that coats my skin and clogs my nostrils. If I didn’t feel like a mess before, the short walk to the sheriff’s office from the rail station definitely does the trick. In Baltimore the roads are all cobblestone, civilized and clean. Even the country roads around Miss Preston’s are a dirt so hard-packed that they might as well be stone. But even though the street here looks lovely from far off, close up the pockmarks reveal themselves. Large piles of something that looks suspiciously like feces dots the lane. I point it out to Katherine, raising my eyebrows. She shrugs.
“It’s horse manure,” Mr. Redfern answers out of nowhere, and both Katherine and I look at him in disbelief.
“Horses?” Katherine asks.
“You have horses?” I squeak. I’ve never seen a horse, apart from paintings of them. Great beasts that people once rode, before the shamblers made them a ready food source. The iron ponies replaced horses as transportation, and I’d love nothing more than to see a horse up close.
Momma used to talk about her favorite horse, Cassandra, named after some doomed woman from ancient myth. Apparently the name was prophetic: the first time Rose Hill was hit with a wave of shamblers they went after the horses, tearing into the poor beasts before Momma and Josiah, the big dark man who led the field work, could put them down. It was a small group, and we were lucky. It gave us enough warning to prepare for future attacks. Most of Rose Hill’s neighbors weren’t so fortunate.
Next to me Katherine sighs. “I’d love to see a horse.”
I nod. “Me too.”
Mr. Redfern gives us a bit of side-eye. “Well, you’ll get your wish. They ride horses along the perimeter fence. I don’t know what the sheriff has planned for you, but it will probably include some patrols. There aren’t nearly enough bodies to fill them properly.” There’s something behind his expression that tells me there is more to his words than he’s letting on, but I leave it alone for now.
We stop short outside of a building with a large, fancy hand-lettered glass window proclaiming “Sheriff” and a flag of red and white stripes. Survivalists.
Mr. Redfern holds the door open for us, and Katherine and I file into a plain-looking office. “Good luck,” he says under his voice before falling in behind us. What he means by that, I can’t know, but his tone is earnest.
Even with the large front window, the room is gloomy. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust, and when they do the vague shapes form into a desk, some chairs, and a cell along the back wall that is currently occupied by Jackson. The whole place carries the smell of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke with a faint air of decay.
The walls are bare wood, with notices breaking up the empty space: a large sign proclaiming “No Drinking After Eight”; a weekly prayer-meeting schedule; two sets of town laws, one for coloreds and another for whites; and, most curious of all, a long document labeled “The Summerland Bill of Rights” posted right next to the door.
“These the girls the mayor wired me about?”
Katherine and I halt at the deep voice, and a loud thump follows, the sound of boots hitting the wide plank floor. I’m half wondering where they got all of this wood from. I ain’t seen a single tree around here, just that golden grass and flat landscape. Did the mayor bring all this building material west on the train? No wonder he was carrying on about investors.
Behind us Mr. Redfern clears his throat. “Yes, Sheriff. Jane McKeene and Katherine Deveraux, both recent graduates of Miss Preston’s School of Combat for Negro Girls.”
“That’ll be all, redskin. Tell Bob and William they need to come back to escort these two after I’m done talking with them.”
“Of course.” Mr. Redfern’s voice is tight, but a glance over my shoulder reveals nothing, his face impassive. I know he has to be hot over being called “redskin” like that, which is an insult in the highest degree. After all, his skin isn’t even red. But, his expression is mild. I sure wouldn’t want to play poker with Mr. Redfern.
The door opens and closes as Mr. Redfern departs, and I turn my attention to the sheriff. The white man who stands before us has the reddened skin of someone who has spent many long days in the shadeless sun of these plains. He wears a wide brim hat even though we’re indoors, and I figure that a place as lawless as this probably ain’t got much use for manners. His sandy mustache droops on either side of his mouth, and despite his relative youth, his movements as he sits are slow and deliberate. I suppose he would be considered attractive, yet there’s something I don’t like about him. There’s a spark in his blue eyes that makes me think the man is more dangerous than he looks, the way they say gators in the swamps down South pretend to be logs before taking a bite out of a man. This is a man who likes to be underestimated.
“Jane McKeene. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Well, sir, I don’t
