“Beast,” another added, like they were tossing rocks at a stray dog.
The man in chains didn’t flinch. His eyes swept the faces—pale and sunburned, suspicious and eager—and he kept his dignity as if it were the only thing no one could steal.
McCrae lifted his chin. “Fifty dollars to start,” he announced. “Who’ll give me fifty for this strong back? Put him to work in the mines. Break horses. Lord knows they’re good with animals.”
The words made a few men chuckle, like it was a private joke they’d told too often to hear the rot in it.
Then, from the back of the crowd, a voice rose clean and sharp as a rifle crack.
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