It was the year 1889, and El Paso basked in the late afternoon heat of the sun. Inside the Painted Lady, a brothel that was famous across the territory, Constance DuBois worked at her desk. The ledger in front of her had its leather covers worn by years of handling. The book held not just monetary transactions but also records of clients and notes deemed sensitive and confidential.
Constance, a woman of advanced age, her hair pulled back tightly and her features etched by time, sat watch over the business. Her hand moved slowly as she marked entries in the ledger.
The creak of the entrance door let in a man wearing a long dustcoat. A hat covered part of his face, but the knife scar cutting across his left cheek was unmistakable. Solomon Reed was back.
"Late arrival," Constance commented without emotion.
"Border crossings are less reliable than they used to be," Solomon said, removing the hat and putting it on the desk.
She nodded toward the ledger. "Information?"
"They are being pursued," he said. "The northern men continue to move, but more slowly."
"The 'crusade,' as you call it."
Solomon nodded. "A few years now."
Just then, a young woman named Marta came in, cautious and quiet. She made her way to a private room where a neatly dressed landowner sat heavily drunk.
"The shipment comes soon," the man said out loud, without regard for discretion. "Gold. Hidden north of here. Well protected."
Constance took notice of the remark.
Solomon's face clouded. "This changes things."
In front of the Painted Lady, Elijah Blackwood stood observing from the opposite side of the street. His height increased since last viewed; his gaze piercing and unrelenting. He did not even make an effort to enter and gave no acknowledgment as Solomon went by.
The latter readjusted his hat and re-returned inside.
Constance continued her notes. The day dwindled, but their efforts persisted relentless.