The Purchase

The rain in Deadwood did not wash things clean; it merely turned the dust into a slurry that coated the throat and weighed down the soul.

Elara crouched under the dripping awning of the livery stable, her knees deep in the muck. She pulled her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders, trying to protect her basket of dried sage and willow bark from the damp.

"Poultice for the ague?" she called out, her voice thin against the roar of the downpour. "Charcoal for the stomach?"

A miner walked past, his boots splashing mud onto her shins. He slowed, looking at her wares, then looked at her face. He saw the pale, strange translucence of her skin and the eyes that seemed to see too much.

"Keep your curses to yourself, witch," he spat, making a sign against evil before hurrying toward the saloon.

Elara wiped the mud from her leg without flinching. She was used to it. They called her cursed because she could touch a fevered forehead and draw the heat into her own hands. They called her unclean because she didn't get sick when the pox swept through the camp. They hated her, but they inevitably came knocking at her shack when the doctors failed.

The rumble of wheels on cobblestones cut through the din of the storm.

The street went quiet. Even the drunkards on the boardwalk hushed.

A carriage, lacquered black and drawn by four massive greys, tore through the Mud District. It didn't slow for the pedestrians; it scattered them like rats. It was a hearse of a vehicle, speaking of money so old and dark it made the gold dust in the river look cheap.

It pulled up directly in front of Elara.

The door swung open. A cane emerged first—ebony, topped with a silver skull. Then, a boot of polished leather stepped into the muck.

Silas Ironwood stood up.

He was a legend in the territory. The Cattle Baron. The man who owned the water rights, the land rights, and the sheriff. He was thirty, but he looked older today. His face was gaunt, his skin ashen, and his eyes burned with a feverish, desperate intensity.

He didn't look at the crowd of gawking miners. He looked straight at Elara.

Elara shrank back against the stable wall. "I have nothing for you, sir. I have no coin."

Silas limped forward, leaning heavily on the cane. He stopped two feet from her. He smelled of expensive tobacco and something else—something sweet and rotting, like lilies on a grave.

"I’m not here for coin," he rasped.

He reached into his heavy wool coat and pulled out a leather sack. He dropped it at her feet. It hit the mud with a heavy, metallic *thud*. The strings loosened, revealing the dull, heavy gleam of gold nuggets.

A gasp rippled through the onlookers. That bag held more wealth than the Mud District saw in a decade.

"Pick it up," Silas commanded.

Elara stared at the gold. "What is this?"

"The price," Silas said. He extended a gloved hand. "I’m not buying the herbs, girl. I’m buying the witch. Pack your things."

"And if I refuse?" Elara whispered, trembling.

Silas leaned in. His eyes were dark voids, swallowing the light. "Look at you. You are starving. You are freezing. And they spit on you. Come with me, and you will never touch the mud again."

Elara looked at the gold. Then she looked at the cold, hateful faces of the townspeople watching her.

She left the basket of herbs where it sat. She reached out and took Silas Ironwood’s hand.

\---