The screams kept the inhabitants of the small gold-mining settlement from sleeping. They were sharp, cutting through the cold air where large snowflakes drifted lazily, only for the sound to freeze again into monolithic silence. No one dared show their face outside; no one intended to do anything about it. Smoke crawled slowly from the chimneys toward the sagging sky, and the smell of frying pork hung in the air. Dogs barked without much enthusiasm. An atmosphere of suppressed fear hovered over the place.

About half an hour earlier, Joe Brow had beaten his wife, Erica. They had argued, and she had told him she was taking two of the dogs and the small sled and leaving. She would move in with friends at Twentieth Mile, and in spring she would go down the river, board a steamboat, and return to San Francisco.

But her plans had failed. Now she lay on the clearing, screaming, unable to get to her feet. Brow had knocked her down with a punch and kicked her viciously with his steel-shod boots, then gone back into the cabin and started pouring whiskey down his throat. His curses could be heard for miles.

The men were not entirely hard-hearted. They were simply hoping Brow would take pity and bring his wife back inside, thus putting an end to the screams. They were afraid of his savage temper. What could they do? Anyone who dared carry Erica into his own home and take care for her would incur Brow’s wrath. On the other hand, they could not leave her to die like a dog in the cold. After all, she was a woman—and a beautiful one at that. They stayed warm and waited for the situation to resolve itself favorably.

Erica Dutrieu lay face down, praying for the pain to subside. Her screams gradually became less frequent and lost their sharpness. The cold helped by numbing her injuries—but it could also kill. It was twenty degrees below zero. As the night wore on, the temperature would drop to minus thirty.

At first she had tried several times to get up, but brutal spasms in her pelvis and left thigh had forced her to remain still. Crawling somewhere was pointless; she could rely only on Joe Brow’s mercy. She knew the others would not help. And how she hated him—how she hated him! She cursed herself for not shooting him. When she had raised her small revolver, her hand had trembled—damn it. She cursed her miserable life and her foolish decision to support her brother’s gold-seeking adventure. Michael had found no gold at all. He had fallen ill with pneumonia and died in terrible agony, and Erica had been forced to open a small shop to survive. Later she had been misled by Joe Brow’s generosity and fake gallantry. She had thought him rough but good-natured. Only after the marriage had his disgusting character revealed itself. He was jealous of every creature wearing trousers and always ready to swing his fists. His jealousy was further fueled by the fact that the settlement housed seventy-seven men and only four women. And Erica was clearly more beautiful and more intelligent than her three rivals—though in truth they were no rivals at all, since each had a man of her own.

Erica touched her face. Her tears had frozen. She felt drowsy. She knew what that meant and became frightened. She let out a desperate cry, but no one responded.

A delegation of three bearded men headed toward Joe Brow’s cabin. They intended to ask him to bring his wife inside. They found him snoring on the bed, clutching a half-empty bottle. Only a cannon shot could have woken him.

“We should at least bring her somewhere warm so she doesn’t freeze.”

“But how do you think he’ll react when he wakes up?”

“How should I know? What else can we do?”

“Well ... nothing. Jane wants to care for her, but her husband won’t allow it—he’s afraid of Brow.”