Miriam appeared behind Silas.

“Coyote Ridge.”

Gideon nodded.

“Two miles from Crowe property.”

Then he rode into the storm.

Silas stood unmoving.

Miriam whispered, “What was Isaac doing near your ranch?”

“I don’t know.”

But Silas was lying.

She could tell.

“Tell me.”

His eyes remained on the darkness.

“Coyote Ridge is where our father hid valuables during cattle raids.”

Miriam remembered the letter.

The rest is where Father taught us to keep what thieves should never find.

Silas turned.

“We’re going back to your cabin at daylight.”

By morning, the storm had weakened.

The Vale cabin looked worse beneath the gray sky.

Half the roof had collapsed.

Snow filled the kitchen.

Miriam stood staring at the wreckage until Silas gently touched her arm.

“Where did Isaac sharpen the knife?”

She pointed toward a broad stone set into the porch beside the door.

“There.”

Jonah frowned.

“Pa used to tap it.”

Silas looked at him.

“What?”

“Three times before he sharpened his knife. Every Sunday.”

Miriam remembered.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She had always assumed it was habit.

Silas knelt.

He brushed away snow.

The sharpening stone had been fitted inside a wooden frame.

Silas inserted the hunting knife along one edge.

Something clicked.

The stone lifted.

Beneath it was a narrow iron box wrapped in oilskin.

Nobody spoke.

Silas carried it inside the ruined cabin.

Miriam’s hands shook as she opened the lid.

Inside were account books.

Receipts.

Letters.

A bundle of bank documents.

And two sealed envelopes.

One addressed to Miriam.

One addressed to Silas.

Silas opened the ledger first.

His face changed as he read.

“My God.”

“What?”

He turned the book toward her.

Page after page listed shipments of territorial relief grain.

One hundred sacks.

Two hundred sacks.

Three hundred sacks.

All marked as distributed to Red Ash Crossing families.

Beside each shipment was the signature of Gideon Mercer.

Miriam stared.

“We never received any.”

Silas flipped farther.

“No.”

Another column showed buyers.

Mining camps.

Army contractors.

Private ranches.

Mercer had been selling government relief supplies for profit.

Miriam whispered, “That’s why the store shelves were empty.”

Silas nodded grimly.

“And why farmers kept losing their land.”

A second book showed mortgages.

Families who had been denied food.

Loans granted afterward.

Properties seized.

One name appeared repeatedly.

Vale.

Beside the final entry, Isaac had written:

MERCER KNOWS I COPIED EVERYTHING.

Miriam covered her mouth.

Silas turned another page.

There, pressed between two sheets, was a note signed by Red Ash Crossing’s physician.

It described Isaac’s body.

Broken ribs.

Head injury.

And one detail omitted from the official death report.

A bullet wound beneath the left shoulder.

Miriam made a sound that barely resembled a word.

“They told me his horse threw him.”

Silas closed his eyes.

“No horse put a bullet through him.”