They lined the women up like a row of candles in daylight, as if the town of Silverpine could snuff them out with a laugh.
It was late spring in the Montana Territory, the kind of day when the sun looked warm but the wind still carried teeth. The square in front of the depot had been scrubbed for the occasion. Someone had even sprinkled sawdust over the mud, as though embarrassment could be swept away if it didn’t stick to boots.
A polished freight wagon sat at the curb like a fancy lie, its paint too clean, its wheels too proud. A banner hung from its side, red letters shouting promises into the sky:
Respectable men filled the square. Ranchers with sun-split lips. Storekeepers who smelled of flour and cashboxes. Prospectors with raw knuckles and pockets that jingled more with hope than gold. Their wives stood behind them, arms crossed, faces pinched with disapproval or curiosity. Boys climbed crates to see better. A dog barked once, then shut up as if it sensed the mood was mean enough without help.
