CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Having spent a cramped night in the tiny jailhouse, Ira stretched out his limbs and yawned loudly. He crossed the room and prepared coffee in the battered, blackened coffee pot before rousing Otis lying fully stretched out on the narrow camp-bed beyond the iron bars.
Nostrils full of the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, Otis had little trouble rousing himself. The previous evening Ira, who came to free him, told him everything. Sitting quietly, digesting every word, Otis had all of his fears confirmed. Everyone he knew was dead. Mr Henry, the Quinces, Eva, Manchester. Murdered for the love of gold. Gold that might not even exist.
“We’ve all been tricked,” said Ira with feeling as the night pressed in. “Best if we do whatever it is it takes to set this miserable affair
