“Mrs. Weaver?”
Hollister shook his head.
“She never saw him either.”
Silas’s expression hardened.
“Then somebody stopped him.”
The doctor examined the twins.
Asa was dehydrated but strong.
Mercy was dangerously weak.
“Another day,” Hollister whispered, “maybe less.”
He looked at Hattie.
“You kept them alive?”
She nodded.
The doctor stared at her as if seeing something impossible.
Then he said, “You saved both their lives.”
Hattie didn’t feel heroic.
She felt angry.
Someone had taken her father.
The next morning, Silas visited Sheriff Abel Crowe.
Crowe was a heavy man with a red mustache and suspicious eyes.
Silas placed the cartridge casings and button on his desk.
The sheriff examined them.
“Could be anything.”
“Could be murder.”
“Could be.”
“Aren’t you going to investigate?”
Crowe leaned back.
“Tom Pell had debts.”
Hattie sat near the stove.
Her head snapped up.
“What debts?”
Crowe looked at her.
“Adult business.”
Silas’s chair scraped.
“Answer her.”
Crowe sighed.
“Your father owed money on the Pell land.”
“To who?”
“Bank.”
“What bank?”
“Territorial Agricultural Company.”
Silas frowned.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“New outfit.”
Hattie remembered something.
Three weeks before the birth, two men had visited the cabin.
Papa had sent her outside.
They wore black coats.
One carried a silver-headed cane.
She told Silas.
Crowe’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Hattie saw it.
“Who has a silver cane?” she asked.
“No idea.”
“You’re lying.”
Crowe stood.
“Mind yourself.”
Silas rose too.
“She’s eleven.”
“Then teach her respect.”
“Respect is earned.”
For several seconds, neither man moved.
Then Crowe pointed toward the door.
“Get out.”
Outside, Hattie whispered, “He knows.”
Silas nodded.
“I think he does.”
For three days, Mercy hovered between life and death.
Hattie stayed beside her.
Silas stayed beside Hattie.
On the fourth morning, Mercy cried.
Not whimpered.
Cried.
Loudly.
Angrily.
Beautifully.
Hattie burst into tears.
This time, Silas let her.
But that afternoon, Silas learned something disturbing.
There was no Territorial Agricultural Company registered anywhere in Montana.
The mortgage papers were fraudulent.
And during the previous two years, six struggling families had lost land to the same company.
Three fathers had disappeared.
Two died in supposed accidents.
One family vanished entirely.
Silas returned to the doctor’s house after dark.
“We’re leaving.”
Hattie looked up.
“Why?”
“Because Crowe knows we’re asking questions.”
“Where?”
“Bannack.”
“Why?”
“Territorial marshal.”
A knock sounded downstairs.
Silas froze.
Another knock.
“Doctor!”
Sheriff Crowe.
Silas blew out the lamp.
Hattie grabbed Mercy.
Dr. Hollister went downstairs.
Voices murmured.
Then footsteps climbed the stairs.
Silas pushed Hattie behind the wardrobe.
The door opened.
Crowe entered.
He wasn’t alone.
Behind him stood a tall man wearing a black coat.
And carrying a silver-headed cane.
Hattie’s blood turned cold.
