Prologue
Here is the ancientfloor,
Footworn and hollowed andthin,
Here was the formerdoor
Where the dead feet walkedin.
—Thomas Hardy,“The Self Unseeing”
Dartmoor, Devonshire
Autumn 1866
Jack Bastin satatop his chestnut mare and peered into the hazy darkness as if searching for a sign of life.
“Dang!” his companion Owen Brandt said. “We’ve faced some dangerous terrain before, but ain’t nothing I ever seen compares to these fogged up, pitch-black wetlands. We’d be better off cast out at sea.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Jack said as they navigated through the white mist that covered the night like an ethereal shroud. “I grew up on this moor.”
Brandt leaned forward and patted his steed’s muscular neck. “Wouldn’t be the first time I relied on you to keep me alive.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Jack mirrored his partner’s accent.
“Now you’re sounding more like the cowboy I know.” Brandt chuckled. “But I guess I’ll have to get used to you talkin’ pretty all the time seein’ we’re on your territory.”
Jack smiled to himself. He’d been born an Englishman, but ten turbulent years in Texas and the American West had taught him to develop a chameleon’s skin. He’d learned to play the part of cowboy, vigilante, gambler, businessman, and gentleman to perfection.
“I see something up ahead.” Jack straightened his back and pointed at a flicker of orange. “See that light? It belongs toYe Olde Ash Tree Inn. All we need do is ride toward it.”
“What light?” Brandt strained his body forward. “That spark yonder? Looks like a firefly. Are you sure we ain’t chasing insects?”
Jack chuckled. “Trust me. Follow the light, and you’ll have a fiery whiskey in your belly in no time.”
“What are we waitin’ for then?” Brandt spurred his horse to a trot.
Within minutes, a whitewashed, granite longhouse emerged out of the mist like some ghostly apparition. A warm glow flickered in two of its mullioned windows, and thin whips of smoke spiraled out chimneys on either side of its thatched roof. In front of the tavern, a row of horses waited for their masters, their reins knotted over a makeshift wood fence, and their feet stamping against the cold. They whinnied and flicked their tails as if to welcome the newcomers that approached.
“I’ll be damned!” Brandt said. “This looks mighty inviting.”
Jack halted his mare and gazed at the building. “Never thought I’d see the likes of this place again.”
“Let’s get inside.” Brandt dismounted his horse. “It’s too dang cold out here.”
A swing of light brought forth a scruffy stable boy carrying a lantern.
Jack handed over the reins. “Fill up a bucket of water for these critters and give them some hay too.”
“Aye, sir.” The boy held out his grubby palm, and Jack pressed a coin into it. He glanced at the row of horses. “Make sure none of them go without water or food, you hear?” He dropped another coin into the boy’s hand.
The child nodded.
“Come on.” Jack slapped Brandt on the back. “Let’s get you that whiskey.”
Voices merry with drink filled the fire-lit tavern, and a swift glance across the room told Jack time had stood still. The building and its occupants were as he remembered them ten years earlier. Two fireplaces carved into the granite walls at both ends of the room provided a shadowy light, and local farmers seated on small wooden stools around roughly carved tables basked in their warmth. A hush fell over the room as Jack and Brandt strode to the bar. Jack knew the locals weren’t used to strangers and certainly not a couple of Americans dressed like cowboys. They’d be suspicious and wary, but Jack didn’t care. As long as nobody recognized him as the lad who’d run from this moor years ago.
“Howdy.” Jack tipped his cowboy hat at the publican—a stout, bristly-haired man he recognized as Amos Adamson, who’d owned the tavern since Jack’s boyhood. He tossed a silver coin on the table. “Two whiskeys.”
