The Last Run to Bitter Creek

Silas Crowe worked by habit the way some men prayed: the motions were rhythm and argument both, each movement an answer to a life that had taught him to trust hands and harness over sermon and supposition. Riverford relay lay low in the morning's dust—an array of lean buildings bunched near the shallow bend of a creek that smelled faintly of iron and last night's coffee. A bell on a post kept time for practical things: the cook's call for the first mess, the relayman's warning when a wheel needed a hand. Silas checked the spokes of the coach wheel with the same scrutiny he gave a man's face. If the grain of wood had a crooked streak, a wheel would tell you when it planned trouble. He ran his thumbs along the felloe, eased the hub's cap off, and found nothing but clean grease and a hairline bruise he would coax into quiet before the road chewed it into a disaster.

"You always look like you're timing a heartbeat, Silas," Jeb Turner called from where he sat on a crate, tying a rag to the end of a broom to keep the flies at bay. Jeb's hands were permanently blackened by oil and patience, and he had a laugh that doubled as a cough. "You pickin' a tune or spyin' the Devil?"

Silas grunted; he lifted a spoke and tapped it. "Neither. Just listenin'. Wheels talk if you let them."

Jeb made a face as if offended the wheel would refuse him a private audience. "They talked to me last night," he said, deadpan. "Mostly insults about my weighin' technique. Said I put too much flour in the bread and it swore it couldn't stand the loaf's arrogance."

Silas smiled without showing teeth. The smile was small and practical; it sat behind his ears and left the business at his palms. Humor here was thin as the dust crust on a pond, but it did what humor should: it loosened something that hardened in the long hours.

Around them the relay had its own rituals. The cook ladled stew into tin plates from a pot seasoned with dried juniper berries and a stubborn knob of molasses—that odd provincial touch the relaywomen swore kept the men coming back (not that anyone would admit it to the women). Laundry lines sagged with shirts and kerchiefs, and somebody had fastened sprigs of dried lavender to them so moths minded different things than linens. Those small, domestic acts were not part of the coach's business, but they were part of the world that made a run worth more than coin: a neighbor knowing the smell of your stew, a child who could tie a bootlace in the dark, a nail saved on the bench because the relay handed down its spares the way it handed down its gossip.

Silas reassembled the hub, tightened the cap until his wrist complained, and slapped some tar on the new seam. He wiped his hands on his trousers, glanced at the horses—big brindle teams who'd tolerate a bad week but not a lazy man—and began the ritual of harnessing. Leather sang under his fingers as he threaded straps, and the horses snuffled, impatient for the road. Jeb ambled over carrying an extra band of iron.

"Sheriff's due any minute," Jeb said, lowering his voice. "Bringin' a passenger this time. Pay's gold-plated for a man like you."

Silas only cocked an eyebrow. A man like him had a price, the way a wheel had a weakness: a number. He wasn't certain what would buy the quiet he'd chosen these last years, but he knew the shape of a hand that tried. He finished tucking the last strap and climbed up on the coach box. The reins settled into his grip like old friends—stubborn, faithful, and worth the keeping.