Aayita turned.
Her father shouted something in Apache.
She answered.
Nantan laughed so violently he had to grab a tree.
Caleb looked at her.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“What did he say?”
Aayita urged her horse forward.
Caleb followed.
“Aayita.”
“Ride.”
“I know that tone.
What did he say?”
She remained silent for nearly half a mile.
Finally Caleb threatened to turn around and ask Takakota himself.
Aayita sighed.
“He said he expects grandchildren before he becomes too old to hold them.”
Rust stopped.
Caleb stared.
Aayita continued riding.
“Aayita!”
Her laughter drifted through the pines.
Caleb spurred Rust after her.
For the first time in three years, he rode without feeling pursued.
But they had gone less than another mile when Aayita suddenly stopped.
Her expression changed.
“Caleb.”
Something in her voice made him reach for his rifle.
She pointed toward the trail.
A man stood ahead.
Unarmed.
Wearing a cavalry coat.
Caleb recognized one of the officers who had arrested Vale.
The lieutenant held a folded telegram.
“I was hoping to catch you.”
“What happened?”
The officer approached.
“Vale talked.”
Caleb’s stomach tightened.
“He named everyone?”
“More than that.”
The lieutenant handed Caleb the telegram.
“He claimed the Tonto Basin operation was approved much higher than anyone knew.”
Caleb opened the paper.
Several names appeared.
Government contractors.
Officers.
Businessmen.
Then one final name.
Caleb read it twice.
The world seemed to tilt.
Aayita moved closer.
“What?”
Caleb could not answer.
Because the last name on Silas Vale’s list was impossible.
Thomas Morrison.
His father.
The man Caleb had spent his entire childhood believing died of fever when Caleb was twelve.
The man whose death had driven Caleb west.
Caleb looked at the lieutenant.
“My father is dead.”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“No.”
Caleb felt the blood leave his face.
“We checked the military records.”
The lieutenant’s expression was grim.
“Thomas Morrison did not die of fever.”
He paused.
“He changed his name.”
Caleb’s hand tightened around the telegram.
“To what?”
The lieutenant looked directly at him.
“Takakota.”
The mountain became silent.
Caleb turned toward the distant camp.
His mind rejected the words.
Takakota?
Impossible.
Takakota was Apache.
Thomas Morrison had been a white surveyor from Missouri.
The lieutenant saw his confusion.
“Not the chief.”
Caleb breathed again.
Then the officer continued.
“Takakota was the name your father used in coded correspondence.
A translation used by the company.”
Caleb stared.
“What company?”
“The land syndicate Vale worked for.”
Aayita took the telegram.
The lieutenant said, “Your father is alive, Caleb.”
Snow moved softly across the trail.
“Where?”
The officer swallowed.
“That is the part Vale found amusing.”
Caleb waited.
“He is the territorial judge who came here yesterday.”
Caleb could not move.
The dignified gray-haired man who had accepted the ledger.
Who had personally promised that every name inside it would be investigated.
The judge now carrying the only surviving evidence.
Caleb whispered, “Where is he?”
The lieutenant looked toward the south.
“He left before dawn.”
Aayita’s face changed.
“The ledger.”
The officer nodded.
“He took it.”
Caleb understood everything at once.
Vale’s surrender.
The convenient arrival of authority.
The judge insisting on taking custody of the evidence.
