Corvin aimed.
Voss laughed.
“You kill a sheriff in front of three hundred Apaches and see what story gets printed.”
Corvin hesitated.
Voss smiled.
Then a voice came from behind him.
“I imagine the story will be considerably more complicated.”
Voss turned.
Tomas Vega stood ten yards away.
Beside him were three white men covered in trail dust.
One carried a United States marshal’s badge.
The marshal looked at the dead deputy in the field.
At Gideon.
At the surrounding warriors.
Then at the letters Tomas held.
“We found Mr. Vega’s messenger at Fort Bowie this morning,” he said.
Voss’s face went white.
Tomas lifted the satchel.
“Your handwriting is remarkably distinctive, Sheriff.”
Voss fired.
Naya struck his arm an instant before the shot.
The bullet flew harmlessly upward.
Corvin tackled him.
They hit the dirt.
Voss clawed for a knife.
Corvin punched him once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
He could have killed him.
Part of him wanted to.
Instead, Corvin stood.
The marshal stepped forward and placed irons around Merrick Voss’s wrists.
Gideon lay several yards away, breathing weakly.
Corvin approached him.
The man who had raised him looked suddenly small.
“I gave you everything,” Gideon whispered.
Corvin crouched.
“No.”
Gideon’s eyes flickered.
“Samuel gave me everything.”
Gideon stared at him.
Corvin looked toward the old stone well.
“My name.”
He looked toward Elena.
“My family.”
Then toward Naya.
“And apparently his bad habit of helping thirsty strangers.”
For the first time, fear appeared in Gideon’s eyes.
Not fear of death.
Fear of being forgotten.
Corvin understood.
That was Gideon’s final punishment.
So Corvin stood.
And walked away.
Gideon Torne died beneath the shadow of the house he had stolen.
Nobody held his hand.
By sunset, the valley was quiet.
Six men had died.
Too many.
But far fewer than Merrick Voss had intended.
Twenty-three of his hired gunmen surrendered.
Several admitted they had participated in staged raids on isolated settlements while wearing stolen Apache clothing.
Weapons, contracts and telegrams were recovered.
The story Gideon and Voss had spent years constructing began collapsing before nightfall.
But Corvin barely cared.
He sat beside Elena’s bed.
Naya sat opposite him.
For the first time in thirty years, all three were beneath the same roof.
Elena slept.
Corvin examined the wooden horse.
His father had carved it.
Samuel.
His real father.
Corvin traced the scorched side.
“How did it burn?”
Naya answered.
Tomas translated from the doorway.
“The night Samuel died.”
Corvin nodded.
Then he noticed something beneath the horse’s belly.
A tiny metal pin.
He pressed it.
A narrow wooden compartment opened.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
Everyone became still.
The paper was old enough to crumble.
