Sela cursed beneath her breath.
Corvin looked at her.
“What?”
She lowered her voice.
“My brother was riding to Fort Mason.”
“With those papers?”
“Yes.”
“To see Crowe?”
“No.”
Sela looked straight at him.
“To expose him.”
Corvin felt the morning suddenly grow colder.
Ransom Pike shouted from below.
“Torne!”
Corvin ignored him.
“What are you saying?”
Sela pointed at Nantan.
“My brother discovered cattle being stolen from Apache land and driven south under false brands. Settlers were killed. Apache families were attacked. Each death was blamed on the other side.”
Corvin felt something dark begin to fit together.
“Why?”
“Land.”
Of course.
It was always land.
Sela continued.
“A railroad survey is coming. Whoever controls the Red Mesa water corridor will control the supply route.”
Corvin looked toward his well.
His insignificant stone well.
The one his father had dug deeper thirty years ago.
The only reliable water source between the southern rail survey and Red Mesa during the dry months.
Pike had not wanted a ranch.
He had wanted a bottleneck.
Sela continued.
“Nantan found records. Payments. Names.”
“Pike?”
“Yes.”
“And Captain Crowe?”
“Yes.”
Corvin looked toward Pike.
He was speaking urgently to one of his riders.
“How do you know?”
Sela reached beneath her belt.
She removed a folded scrap of paper stained with blood.
Nantan’s blood.
Corvin opened it.
Most of the writing was nearly illegible.
But three names remained clear.
R. PIKE.
E. CROWE.
And one name Corvin had not expected.
J. TORNE.
His father’s name.
Corvin looked at Sela.
“No.”
She said nothing.
“My father has been dead twelve years.”
Sela’s voice softened.
“He knew.”
Corvin crushed the paper slightly in his fist.
“Knew what?”
“Where the records were hidden.”
“My father was a rancher.”
“He was many things.”
Corvin stared at her.
Sela pointed toward the old stone well.
“Nantan died trying to reach this ranch.”
Corvin’s blood went cold.
“Why?”
“Because your father hid something here.”
Behind them, Pike shouted again.
“Corvin!”
Corvin turned.
Pike had ridden closer.
“You have five minutes!” he yelled. “Then we’re coming in!”
The Apache riders shifted.
Sela watched Pike.
Corvin walked to the porch and lifted his Winchester.
Pike immediately raised his rifle.
Instead of aiming at the Apache, Corvin aimed at the dirt three feet in front of Pike’s horse.
He fired.
Dust exploded.
The horse reared.
Pike cursed.
Corvin levered another round.
“You cross that fence without my permission,” Corvin called, “and the second shot won’t hit dirt.”
Pike stared at him.
“You’re choosing them?”
“No.”
Corvin glanced at Sela.
“I’m choosing the truth.”
For the next hour, a strange peace settled over the ranch.
Pike’s men waited south of the fence.
Three hundred Apache riders remained on the hills.
And Corvin followed Sela toward the well.
The stone structure had stood there since before Corvin could remember.
His father had rebuilt it when Corvin was six.
“Your father ever change the stones?” Sela asked.
Corvin frowned.
“One winter. I remember because he wouldn’t let me help.”
“Which stones?”
Corvin circled the well.
Most were rough sandstone.
One near the bottom was darker.
