a blade. One simply points and—”
Coleman jumped toward him. With a quick hard hit to the wrist and a jab and twist, the blade clanged to the pavement. Coleman kicked the blade away with his whitened leather boot and eyed him. “Lessons for food.”
Food wasn’t going to be all that useful if he was dead. “Agreed.”
* * *
ONE MOMENT MATTHEW WAS silently and miserably eating cold, mucky stew at a splinter-infested table with his father and Coleman, and the next, the left side of his world edged into piercing darkness.
Matthew’s spoon slid from his fingers and clattered past the table, dropping against the uneven wooden floorboards. Oh, God. His throat tightened as he blinked rapidly, glancing about in disbelief. His peripheral was...gone. Black!
His father lowered his wooden spoon. “What is it?”
Coleman ceased eating midchew.
“I can’t see.” Matthew scrambled out of his chair and stumbled. He fell back against the doorless cupboard behind him with a thud. “I can’t see from my left eye!” He scanned the small, barren tenement, only able to make out the uneven plastered walls to his right.
His father jumped toward him. “Matthew, look at me.” Grabbing his shoulders, his father firmly angled him closer. “Are you certain? That eye is still swollen.”
Matthew placed trembling fingertips against it. He could feel his fingers grazing and touching the lashes of his open eye, but dearest God, he couldn’t see them. “Everything to the left is black. Why? Why is it...” He dragged in uneven breaths, unable to say anything more. Nor could he think.
Coleman slowly rose to his booted feet. “Christ. It’s from the blows.”
Matthew turned his head to better see Coleman. “What do you mean, it’s from the blows? That doesn’t make any sense. How can a few—”
“I’ve seen it in boxing, Milton. One man I knew took so many hits in one match, he went blind within a week.”
Matthew’s breaths now came in gasps. It had been a week.
Shaking his head, Coleman grabbed his great coat from the back of the chair. “I’m hunting that prick down.”
Despite his panic of being half-blind, Matthew choked out, “Hunting him down isn’t going to change anything.”
“This isn’t about changing anything.” Coleman stalked toward him. “It’s about sending a message on what is and isn’t acceptable.”
His father pushed and guided Matthew toward the door. “If this is what you say it is, Coleman, the first thing we need is a surgeon. Now!”
“There is one over on Hudson.” Coleman wedged past them and yanked open the paneled door leading to the corridor. “Though, I really don’t know what the man will be able to do.”
* * *
THE LAST OF THEIR MONEY was gone. And so was the vision in Matthew’s left eye. He fingered the leather patch that had been tied over his unseeing eye by the surgeon who had pronounced it permanently blind. The surgeon agreed with Coleman, stating that the blows he’d sustained had something to do with it, which meant he, Matthew Joseph Milton, was going to be a one-eyed, poverty-stricken freak for the rest of his days.
Gritting his teeth, Matthew jumped up from the crate of newspapers he’d been sitting on, whipped around and slammed a knuckled fist into the wall. He kept slamming and slamming and slamming his fist until he had not only punched his way through the plaster and the wooden lattice buried beneath, but felt his knuckles getting soft.
“Matthew!” His father jumped toward him, jerking back his arm, and yanked him away from the wall.
Matthew couldn’t breathe as he met his father’s gaze.
His father rigidly held up the hand, making Matthew look at the swelling welts, scrapes and blood now slathering it. “Don’t let vile anger overtake the heart within. Don’t.”
Matthew pulled his hand away, which now throbbed in agony. He swallowed, trying to compose himself, and glanced toward Coleman, who still hadn’t said a word since he’d been pronounced blind by the surgeon.
Coleman eventually said, “I’m sorry for all of this.” Pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against, he continued in a dark tone, “Assault, as well as murder, rape and everything else imaginable, is so commonplace here, not even the marshals can keep up with it. Which is why, even with my boxing skills, I always carry a pistol. These bastards don’t bow to anything else.”
Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “If the marshals can’t keep up with it, it means there isn’t enough muscle to go around. It’s obvious some sort of watch has to be put together using local men.”
Coleman puffed out a breath. “Most of these men don’t even know how to read, let alone think properly enough to do the right thing. It would be like inviting a herd of unbroken stallions into your stable and asking them to line up for a saddle. Believe me, I’ve tried to round up men. They only want to fend for themselves.”
“Then we will find better men.” Matthew flexed his hand, trying to push away the throbbing and angst writhing within him. “Though, I should probably invest in a pistol first. How much does a pistol cost anyway?”
“Matthew.” His father set a hand on his arm. “You cannot be taking justice into your hands like this. ’Tis an idea that will see you arrested or, worse yet, killed.”
Matthew edged toward his father. “In my opinion, I’m already in manacles. And if I die, it will be on my terms, Da, not theirs. I don’t know what the hell needs to be done here, but I’m not doing it sitting on a crate filled with whatever is left of your goddamn newspaper.”
Those taut features sagged. His father released his arm with a half nod, and quietly rounded him, leaving the room.
Realizing he’d been stupid and harsh, Matthew called out after him. “I’m sorry, Da. I didn’t mean that.”
“I deserve it,” his father called back. “I do.”
“No, you—” Matthew swiped his face and paused, his fingers grazing the leather patch. God. His life was a mess.
“A good pistol costs ten to fifteen dollars,” Coleman provided. “Not including the lead you’d need.”
Matthew winced. “Gut me already. I can’t afford that.”
“I never bought mine.”
Matthew angled his head to better see him. “What do you mean? Where did you get it?”
Coleman quirked a dark brow. “Are you really that naive?”
Matthew stared and then rasped, “You mean, you stole it?”
Coleman strode toward him, set a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. “It’s only stealing, Milton, if you do it for your own gain or if you never give it back. Do you know how many people I’ve saved with this here pistol? Countless. I doubt God is going to be punishing me anytime soon. If you want a pistol, we’ll go get you one. A good one.”
Matthew held that gaze. Mad though it was, this man was on to something momentous. Something that, Matthew knew, was about to change not only his life but the lives of others.
CHAPTER ONE
The city inspector reports the death of 118 persons during this ending week. 31 men, 24 women and 63 children.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Eight years later
New York City—Squeeze Gut Alley, evening
THE SOUND OF HOOVES thudding against the dirt road in the far distance beyond the dim, gaslit street made Matthew