Chapter 22

Days turned into a week, and despite the tireless efforts of Beulah and Lois, no reliable information about the auction’s new location surfaced. The Blossom’s usual bustle took on a somber tone, the whispers of hope that had once filled its walls now replaced with the murmurs of frustration and fear. The girls did their best to keep up appearances, but the tension was palpable, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

It was during one of their patrols that Ben and Sly stumbled upon Mack Parsons, a beggar who had made the dusty streets of Lawless Ridge his home for longer than anyone cared to remember. His tattered clothes and weathered face were as much a part of the town’s fabric as the saloons and the jailhouse. Most folks ignored him, but Ben had always felt a twinge of pity for the old man.

As they approached, Mack looked up from his spot in the shade of the general store, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the two of them. “Evening, Sheriff,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

Sly nodded, his eyes scanning the street. “Mack,” he said, his voice curt. “You seen anything unusual lately?”

Mack squinted, his eyes flicking from Ben to Sly and back again. “Unusual?” he repeated, stroking his scruffy beard. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, flipping it through the air. It glinted in the fading light before landing in Mack’s outstretched hand. “How about the kind of unusual that comes with a gold lining?” he asked, his voice low and earnest.

Mack’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coin, his grip tightening around it. He looked from Ben to Sly, then back to Ben. “Whiskey?” he murmured, hope sparkling in his rheumy eyes.

Ben nodded, his expression grim. “I’ll get it,” he said, turning towards the saloon. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of tobacco and whiskey, the sound of glasses clinking and drunken laughter a stark contrast to the tension outside. He approached the bar, his eyes scanning the bottles lined up like soldiers ready for battle. He chose a bottle of the good stuff, the kind that burned like liquid gold going down.

Mack’s eyes followed Ben’s movements, his own hand shaking slightly as he anticipated the sweet relief of the alcohol. Sly stepped forward, his hand reaching into his pocket to produce a cigarillo, the rich scent of tobacco wafting through the air. “Here,” he said gruffly, pressing it into Mack’s palm. “Now, talk.”

Mack’s eyes grew wide, and he looked from the silver dollar to the cigarillo and back to Ben. “Two nights ago,” he began, his voice raspy from years of hard living, “I saw a closed carriage, all fancy-like. The driver, he had the look of a man who knew his business, and the horses were sleek and well-fed.”

Sly’s gaze sharpened, his hand stilling mid-motion as he lit the cigarillo. “Where’d they come from?” he barked.

Mack took a shaky breath, his eyes on the silver dollar. “The driver, he didn’t say much,” he said, his words slurred slightly. “But he had the air of a man who didn’t belong here. Asked me for directions to Lady Maud’s place, though.”

Ben’s heart skipped a beat. Lady Maud was an enigma in Lawless Ridge, a woman whose true intentions were as murky as the whiskey that flowed in her establishment. Her brothel, the Rose of the Desert, was the largest in town, and it was said she had more information than the town’s telegraph. “What then?” Ben asked, his voice tight.

Mack took a deep drag of his cigarillo, his eyes misting with the sweet smoke. “Well,” he began, his voice a little steadier now, “the carriage stopped outside Lady Maud’s place, and the driver, he handed me a silver piece.”

“What did he say to her?” Ben pressed, his hand tightening around the bottle of whiskey.