The man Corvin had mourned, defended, and imitated his entire life had found him beneath the body of his murdered mother.
And had hidden him from the men responsible.
The letter continued.
I cannot ask forgiveness.
I helped create the lie that killed your family.
Everything I gave you afterward was purchased first with their blood.
The ranch is yours by law.
But the land beneath it was never mine.
Corvin stared at the last line.
Then a voice rang from the eastern road.
“CORVIN TORNE!”
Sena grabbed his shoulder.
“Now.”
He folded the letter and shoved it beneath his shirt.
Forty riders entered the valley.
At their head was Gideon Vale.
He had aged since Corvin last saw him, but wealth had preserved him better than kindness ever could.
Silver touched his beard.
A cream-colored coat hung perfectly across his shoulders despite the dust.
Behind him rode armed men.
Some wore deputy badges.
Others wore no badges at all.
Vale stopped outside the ranch fence.
His eyes traveled across the ridges.
Three hundred Apache warriors watched him.
For the first time, Gideon Vale looked uncertain.
Then he smiled.
“Corvin!”
Corvin walked into the yard.
Sena remained near the well.
Her father stood twenty yards behind her.
Vale removed his hat.
“Thank God you’re alive.”
Corvin said nothing.
Vale continued loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“We received word a hostile band was moving through this country.
I came as quickly as possible.”
“You came with forty armed men.”
“To rescue you.”
“From three hundred men who haven’t fired a shot?”
Vale’s smile tightened.
“Perhaps they were waiting.”
“For what?”
Vale looked toward Sena.
“For her.”
Corvin noticed it.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But Gideon Vale’s eyes changed when he saw the metal cylinder in Corvin’s hand.
Fear.
There.
Gone immediately.
But Corvin had seen it.
Vale pointed.
“That woman murdered two territorial deputies yesterday.”
Sena did not react.
Corvin asked, “Where?”
“North road.”
“What time?”
Vale hesitated.
“Afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Does it matter?”
Corvin almost smiled.
Years of writing things down had taught him that lies hated clocks.
“Yes.”
Vale shifted in his saddle.
“Perhaps three.”
Corvin looked toward Sena.
She answered calmly.
“I reached his ranch at two seventeen.”
“How do you know?”
Vale snapped.
Corvin held up the brass ledger.
“Because I wrote it down.”
Vale’s face changed again.
Corvin opened the ledger.
“Yesterday.
Two seventeen.
Woman arrived wounded.
Three controlled drinks of water.
Left at two thirty-one.”
Sena glanced sideways at him.
“Three controlled drinks?”
Corvin ignored her.
Vale said, “You expect these men to believe a notebook over sworn officers?”
“No.”
Corvin lifted the metal tube.
“I expect a court to believe this.”
Vale’s smile vanished.
Every man behind him became still.
Vale spoke quietly.
“Where did you get that?”
“My well.”
For the first time that morning, Sena’s father smiled.
Vale looked at the Apache warriors.
Then at Corvin.
Then at the cylinder.
His calculation was almost visible.
“You don’t understand what you’ve found.”
“I understand enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
Vale dismounted.
Two of his men followed.
Corvin saw Sena’s father raise a hand.
Immediately, rifles along the ridge came up.
Vale stopped.
“Careful,” he said.
Not to Corvin.
To everyone.
“One shot from those hills and every newspaper in the territory will call this a massacre.”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
Corvin asked.
