They looked at the poor boy, only 11 or 12 years of age, thin and messy. He was covered with bruises all over his body and his eyes were brimming with tears as he looked at his father. However, there must've been an order for him not to speak, because all he could do at this time was whimper.
The boy came from Bright—a good territory that treated its citizens well—and yet the boy looked so horrible even after just a few days. It was obvious he suffered a lot.
Just the imagery made their blood boil in outrage, but at the same time, they couldn't attack recklessly lest they accidentally take the boy's life.
"I heard about your outburst when the slaves arrived... Of course, we kept this card safe and sound for you. Aren't you thankful?"
Okra chuckled as he handed the boy over to Fargo who had a dagger ready in his hand. He put the blade threateningly on the boy's neck, making everyone pale.
