"Name?"

  "Chen Jianqiu."

  "Occupation?"

  "Miner."

  "Motive?"

  Chen Jianqiu had no intention of answering. The two men at the interrogation table seemed just as impatient as he was. He knew the drill—no matter what he said, they'd fabricate a story and send him straight to the gallows.

  "Judging by your knife skills back at the saloon, you're no stranger to trouble, huh? Care to share?" Johnny sneered.

  Chen Jianqiu remained silent, his expression unreadable. Instead, he studied the window behind Johnny with mild amusement.

  "How's that hand of yours?" His gaze lingered on Johnny's injured hand, now clumsily wrapped in gauze.

  Johnny's face darkened. He stood and loomed over the prisoner.

  "You got quick hands, kid. Let's see if your skull's as hard as your mouth." He jerked his chin at the scribe. "Hold him down."

  The young clerk hesitated. As one of the few literate men in the sheriff's office, he resented playing enforcer for this brute.

  Reluctantly, he moved behind Chen Jianqiu, gripping his head and neck.

  "Careful, friend. Your boss here can't throw a punch to save his life," Chen Jianqiu remarked casually.

  Before the clerk could process the words, a fist flew—but instead of hitting Chen Jianqiu, it slammed into his own gut.

  "Sir, I—" The clerk gasped, only to take another brutal punch to the arm. The force nearly snapped bone.

  "Johnny!" he howled, abandoning all pretense of respect. "You're hitting me, you idiot!"**

  Johnny froze. He'd been aiming for Chen Jianqiu's face.

  "Told you. His fists are useless," Chen Jianqiu grinned.

  Johnny backed off, and the clerk released his grip, clutching his injuries.

  "Goddamn Chinaman's a witch," Johnny muttered. "Throw him in a cell. They all hang at dawn."

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  "Better nail him to a cross while we're at it. I'll fetch holy water from the reverend," the clerk added bitterly.

  The sheriff's office was small—a ground-floor workspace, an interrogation room upstairs, and a cramped basement jail.

  Chen Jianqiu was shoved into one of the cells. The only light seeped through a narrow window near the ceiling. His "neighbor," separated by iron bars, was the black man—lounging on a bench like he'd done time before. Across from them sat the unconscious Native youth.

  "Hey, brother, what'd they ask you?" The black man perked up as Chen Jianqiu entered. "Name's Shawn. You?"

  "Chen," he replied tersely, scanning the cell.

  If they planned to hang him in the town square tomorrow, he'd need to cause a distraction. Slipping away wouldn't be hard—but dodging bullets was another matter. Maybe hop a train after?

  "Hey, Chen, what you think they'll do to us?" Shawn prattled on, oblivious to Chen Jianqiu's indifference.

  "Hang us at dawn." The words were calm, but Shawn recoiled like he'd been shot.

  "Listen for yourself." Chen Jianqiu pointed upward.

  The floorboards were thin. Every word from the office above carried clearly.

  "Boss, what charges we putting on 'em?"

  "Burglary, murder, arson—pick two. Either's enough for a noose," Johnny's voice boomed.

  "And their backgrounds?"

  "Make it up. Worse, the better. That Injun? Killer. The Chinaman? Bandit. And the n*? Thief—look at his shifty eyes." Johnny chuckled. "Finish the 'report' tonight. Public trial tomorrow, then string 'em up."

  Shawn's face crumpled.

  Chen Jianqiu lowered his voice. "You are a thief, right?"

  Shawn grimaced. "Well, I, uh... occasionally—"

  "Here's what I've learned in America," Chen Jianqiu cut in. "When these white men say you're armed? Be armed. They call you a monster? Be the monster." He nodded at the cell lock. "That thing's no problem for you, yeah?"

  Shawn hesitated. "I'd need something pointy. And even then, we can't take on the guards."

  "Leave that to me. Like I said—be what they accuse you of."

  "If you get us out," the Native youth suddenly spoke in halting English, "I know how to escape pursuit. I am Flying Bird. Lakota."

  Chen Jianqiu studied him. "Why kill the mine owner?"

  "His real name was Robert. A Union colonel. After the war, he hunted my people. Five years ago, he shot my father—Crazy Horse—in the back." Grief flickered in Flying Bird's eyes.

  Chen Jianqiu nodded. "Don't let vengeance blind you. It gives strength, but you need colder decisions. Better plans."

  The young warrior had courage, but his emotions ruled him. He had much to learn.

  For a moment, Chen Jianqiu forgot he, too, was barely twenty—in this life or his last. Though his earliest memories in this body remained locked away, its instincts spoke of hard-earned experience.

  Flying Bird sat back, absorbing the words.

  Chen Jianqiu turned to the wooden bench, took a breath, and slammed his palm down. The plank cracked, revealing a slender iron nail beneath.

  "The hell's going on down there?" The basement door creaked open. The clerk peered in.

  All he saw was Chen Jianqiu gripping Shawn's collar through the bars, the two locked in a fake glare.

  "Shut up and sleep it off. You'll be in hell together soon enough." The clerk rolled his eyes and left.

  Once the door shut, Chen Jianqiu released Shawn and handed him the nail.

  "Will this work?"

  Shawn tested it against the lock and nodded.

  "Then we move tonight. Rest up." Chen Jianqiu lay back on the now-crooked bench, staring at the ceiling.

  He replayed last night's events, piecing together his next move.