When a fight ends, there’s always spoils.The take off the Five Joaquins turned out richer than expected.First, cash—eighty-two dollars. James weighed the gold: about eight ounces.“Two hundred forty dollars in all. Add the bounty and it’s a fortune. Maybe we ought to start charging Max for meals.”James shot Mary a look.“Don’t talk nonsense. Be grateful nothing happened to us because of him.”“Oh, come on. I was just saying…”Mary’s lips jutted as she glanced at James. For a beat, regret flashed in her eyes.Max cut a look at James.That stubborn face showed not a speck of greed.So—because I did the killing, it’s mine?He felt like he had James pegged.A man who hates being indebted, who won’t covet anything he hasn’t earned square. Maybe religion. Maybe he was just born that way.Out of step with the age—stiff and old-fashioned. In Joseon terms, a scholar.Max liked his character.And there were a few other angles besides.“Let’s put the Five Joaquins down as James’ capture.”James and Mary stared, eyes wide.“What’s this all of a sudden?”“You think they’ll pay a bounty clean to an Oriental with no citizenship or residence papers? Even if they did, the process would be a mess.”“…And who’s going to believe I caught them?”“Say I helped. Put you as the principal. We split the bounty fifty-fifty.”“Fifty-fifty?”A Korean word slipped out of him.Wanting money is one thing; you spend that want where it fits.Now was the time to cut it in halves.“It means we split it down the middle.”“!”Max held out half the seized cash to Mary.She clapped a hand over her mouth, side-eyed James. Conall blinked at his father.James, against their hopes, shook his head stone-faced.As expected: no give.“That won’t do.”“We received a favor; what’s a bounty compared to that? Please take this first.”“We’re the ones in your debt…”“Letting a stranger like me join your journey—that’s the favor. When I take, I return in kind. That’s my rule.”Something true in Max’s voice made James’ eyes waver.“Lucky we didn’t end up owing you the other kind.”“Then I’d have to pay it back double, wouldn’t I?”Hard to call that a joke, the way he said it.James scratched an awkward smile, then looked to his wife and son.Both were all but shouting at him with their eyes to accept.He sighed and nodded.After all the hell California put them through, the fact he’d hesitated at all made him feel small.“Thank you for your generosity.”“I should be the one thanking you.”Max bowed his head; Mary smiled and took the cash.All right, money sorted. Next…The weapons were as sweet as the cash.Three Colt Dragoons (Model 1848), two Colt Navies (Model 1851–52), and two Sharps rifles.Plus ammunition and powder.Excessive.It’s not like the gang bought them honest—most of this kit was stripped off dead men. The way Max had just done…Bagged myself a golden goblin.And James’ wagon had just become a treasure coach.Which is why Max hunted buffalo day after day and threw barbecue for the Mormons.His body started to put on flesh, and raiders never showed again. ****“Ugh, I can’t stand the stink!”As the corpses rotted, the wagon filled with a reek.No help for it—Max stopped in a settlement along the Oregon Trail and had a big coffin built.For ease of travel he put wheels on it and hitched it behind the wagon.From Utah on, the journey finally looked near its end after nearly two months.They split south off Nebraska into Kansas. Crossed the Kansas River and rolled into Kansas City, Jackson County, at Missouri’s western edge.If Missouri were a province, a county would be a district, and Kansas City a little market town.Only after conferring with James on a few points did Max ride into town.“Wow, so this is a city!”Conall breathed out when the true town rose from the prairie.Where do you see that? Tiny as hell.By Max’s standards, Kansas City didn’t even match a backwater. Nothing of the vast metropolises he’d seen in his former life.The buildings at the confluence of the Missouri and Kansas Rivers could be taken in at a glance.Sheriff office.They pulled up the wagon before a corner clapboard building.Four men idled on the front porch. With emigrants rolling in by the day, James’ family drew little interest.“We’d like to process some criminals.”Heads turned at James’ words.“Criminals… I’m Hudson, sheriff here.”“James Harris.”A stout man with a mustache came down off the porch, badge star on his chest.“Where you from?”“California.”“No wonder you look storm-worn. Long road. So where are the criminals?”James pointed at the rear.Max was in the middle of unhooking the coffin from the hitch.Clack.Thump.The heavy box hit dirt.Hudson barely glanced at it. His eyes stuck on Max.“Oriental?”More interesting than the dead, apparently.The deputies closed in around Max. One took out a sketch.A slave trader…The look on their faces told Max exactly what this was.“Looks like the description Cullen Baker gave for that Oriental, Sheriff.”Cullen Baker—the slave trader who’d tried to sell Max into the South. He must’ve put the sheriff on him when passing through.To get to the South you had to pass Jackson County.“Seize him.”At Hudson’s word the deputies ringed Max. James and his family didn’t panic—as if they’d expected it. Max kept his voice even.“What’s this about, exactly?”“Hm?”“Folks keep saying I look like that man in your sketch. Heard it three, four times on the way in.”First he’d heard of it. He just put on a weary, bored face.Hudson’s eyes narrowed.Cullen Baker had said:— A damned Chinaman who can’t speak English. Doubt he’d make it this far, but if he does, grab him. And he’s tall for an Oriental.Max stood around five-nine—tall enough. On looks alone he fit Cullen’s mark.The problem was his English—too fluent.While Hudson wavered, Max kept talking.“Head to California and you’ll see a hundred men who look like me. All skin and bones from not eating.”“So you’re not the man who signed a slave contract with Cullen?”“Why in God’s name would I sign # Nоvеlight # a slave contract? That con only works on the illiterate. I signed a proper three-year labor contract with Mr. James here.”Hudson’s gaze slid to James.James nodded and spoke.“Max isn’t from China. He’s from Joseon. He speaks English well enough that I hired him.”“What work?”“Built mining equipment.”“A blacksmith, then.”James had in fact worked at a big forge in California. Finding that out is what had sharpened Max’s interest in him.Hudson stared a hole through Max, then huddled with his deputies. When they broke, he stepped back.His attention finally returned to the original business—the bodies. He toed the coffin with a grimace.“Open it.”Max set a crowbar and levered the lid free. Three badly decomposed corpses lay inside.“Looks about a month old.”The stench twisted Hudson’s face. He pressed a handkerchief to his nose and shooed flies with his free hand.“One right between the eyes. That one in the back of the head. And this poor devil got a knife in the neck. Looks like you killed small-timers without guns.”He muttered as he read the wounds.If plain folk like James’ family could be threatened by them, they’d seem small fry.A year as sheriff of Jackson County—Every criminal the bounty boys had dragged in was second-rate.The ones posted by the feds or a state were too vicious and too good with their hands; bounty hunters ended up dead more often than not.So most bounties were personal—men with a private score to settle.Hudson asked James with a lazy face, like he’d been saddled with a chore he didn’t want.“So who are these men?”The answer crashed his expectations.“The Five Joaquins Gang.”“—Hah!”A gang with a three-thousand-dollar bounty.No way Hudson and his deputies didn’t know that. Their eyes bulged.Max obliged their rush to the bodies with a calm explanation.“Middle one is Joaquin Murrieta, the boss.”“…You’re telling me you took what the California Rangers couldn’t? And Murrieta himself—a famed gunman?”Who the hell did it? Hudson’s eyes ticked between Max and James.“They came at our family on the Oregon Trail. We fought.”“So you killed them? You—a blacksmith?”“This friend helped a great deal.”They’d settled it: James as principal, Max as aide.“Get their identities verified, now.”Unwilling to believe, Hudson sent his deputies to re-check the bodies.They went over corpses and effects one by one and, at last, reached the conclusion: the Five Joaquins Gang.Even Max hadn’t known—Murrieta’s right hand was “Three-Fingered Jack.” True to the nickname, three missing fingers sealed it.Murrieta. Three-Fingered Jack… Feels like I heard that in a movie.While Max tilted his head, Hudson spoke to James.“You’ve done something huge. The California Rangers are over in Colorado now, chasing them.”“Is that so?”“Come on, let’s take this inside.”Hudson grinned and took James by the arm into the office. Night and day from before.A gang the whole country watched had come to him as corpses—hard to blame the man for being excited.Max, Mary, and Conall waited at the wagon until James came out.Deputies shifting the coffin to the side of the office kept throwing looks at Max.After a while, James emerged and shook his head.“Looks like we’ll be here a while. Never mind the money—we have to wait for the California Rangers to confirm.”“As expected,” Mary said.Paying a bounty in full without question is something only California would do. The one piece of luck: the Rangers weren’t that far off.Max, however, hadn’t expected them to come here in person.If they’ve heard the story, they’ll know I did it—not James.Trying to make this easy had only made it messy.They went to find lodging.Most places had a saloon on the ground floor and rooms above. A hired gun called a bouncer kept order.“Hold up. Read this before you go in.”The bouncer stopped them at the door.A face worn by too many years and too much trouble.He pointed to a sign.[NO MORMONS. NO COLOREDS. NO SLAVES.]James and Mary’s faces pinched.Max’s stayed comparatively flat. Inside, he boiled.Goddamn race rules.

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