No White Knight

Proof.

Like an ancient rock that sent him messages, and he used it to turn the entire town of Ursa upside down.

Just like Father Matthew’s journals said, always talking about how the town fell to sin.

It’s real.

Oh my God, it’s all real.

There’s no other way Ms. Wilma could know about the town at the end of the mountain pass or the journals we found or the maybe-meteorite.

Any chance that this is all a weird hoax or misunderstanding vanishes.

I can’t breathe.

But I can’t let her know what’s going through my head, so I take a quick gulp of my lemonade to try to settle myself, kicking Holt lightly under the table.

I need him to keep talking while I can’t.

He needs to keep Ms. Wilma from asking questions that might make her connect why we’re asking about Ursa.

Never mind why we’re asking about a man who’s long disappeared.

Holt jumps a little and gives me an odd look before his expression clears with understanding. He switches his gaze back to Ms. Wilma.

“So that’s it then?” he asks. “Were they just straight up having some strange religious sect up there in the mountains?”

“Oh, I really doubt it was as much as all that,” she says, waving a hand. “Honestly, I think the prophecies and their blood stone were just an excuse. These were unclean people, my dears. Bandits, killers, and men so desperate they’d do anything. They merely wanted an excuse to plunder as they pleased. Danny claimed his blood stone was meant to guide them to riches hidden in Heart’s Edge and gave them a mandate to murder.”

“Hell.” Holt’s dark brows lift rather sharply. “That’s pretty creepy.”

“People do terrible things when they can find a reason,” Ms. Wilma says with a sigh. “Granny said they’d ride in during these terrible night raids. Come swooping down from the mountains on horseback and pillage the town, slaughtering and stealing loads of silver, claiming it was theirs by right. They’d take over the road into the town, too, so no one could ever follow them back. It came to be that just speaking the name ‘Ursa’ or mentioning Danny made folks tremble, fearing they were summoning another raid, so no one ever did.”

“A local superstition,” I fill in. I’ve had a few moments to breathe. I’m feeling a bit clearer-headed. “That’s why nobody talks about it. Sooner or later, people died and the raids stopped, but everybody kinda forgets Ursa existed. It just fell off the map.”

“Not quite.” Ms. Wilma smiles again, and there’s a touch of pride there. “You see, someone actually put a stop to Danny’s reign of terror. I’m proud to say my own great-great-uncle Jubal Ford—partnered up with the great grandfather of our own esteemed Sheriff Langley.”

“Langley?” I choke on the next sip of my lemonade and cough, thumping my chest. “No way.”

Holt smirks. “You’re telling me this town used to have a competent police chief?”

“Holt Silverton, you watch that devil’s tongue,” Ms. Wilma chides with a repressed laugh. “Poor Sheriff Langley puts up with quite a bit for us.”

“Ever so sorry, Ms. Wilma.” Holt clears his throat, putting on his best good-schoolboy smile.

“Hardly, you devil of a boy. You never have been,” she says fondly, shaking her head. “But yes, back then those two men decided to play hero. They gathered up the strongest men in Heart’s Edge and rode out to Ursa. It was a twilight duel, they say, between Uncle Jubal and Danny himself. The whole nest of snakes scattered after my ancestor shot the rattlesnake prophet. But the superstition held on long after Ursa didn’t. You’re right about that, Libby. Perhaps people feared the ghost of Danny long after everything else was forgotten. I do believe it’s somewhere north in the mountains, if any part of it still exists—not so far outside of town.”

No, not so far indeed.

Holt and I exchange another heavy glance.

Then he asks, “You know anything about what the numbers ‘eighteen-thirty-one to eighteen-sixty-nine’ might mean?”

“Sounds like a grave marker, dearie, don’t you think?” Ms. Wilma asks. “And, well, I do believe eighteen sixty-nine was the year Danny would’ve died in the shootout. If my grandmother’s stories happened just as she said.”

I think they did.

And I think we’ve already said too much.

Especially when Ms. Wilma gives me one of those mild looks that says she sees a lot more than anyone would want her to.

“Tell me, why this sudden interest in old legends?” she asks.

“We just found some old books in the library, and we were curious,” I say quickly. “Notes in the historical zoning records and stuff like that. Figured it couldn’t hurt to know a bit more about local history.”

“Is that so?” she says shrewdly.

Yeah.

For now, it’ll have to be.

* * *

There’s a little more small talk, and we don’t leave without her pressing some more cookies on us, still warm and wrapped up in a plate covered in a paisley cloth.