W.M.C.

Walker Mercantile Company.

His uncle’s company.

Samuel Walker had raised Ethan after his parents died.

To most of southern Arizona, Samuel was everything Ethan was not.

Successful.

Polished.

Connected.

He owned a mercantile store in Tucson, freight wagons, mining investments and several thousand acres of grazing country.

He had also loaned Ethan most of the money used to purchase Ethan’s ranch.

When Ethan returned to the village before sunrise, he barely spoke.

Ayana stayed beside him.

Whitehawk examined the cartridge.

“You know this mark.”

“Yes.”

“Whose?”

“My uncle’s.”

Silence.

Ethan sat near the dying fire.

“He orders ammunition in bulk. Half the ranchers between Tucson and the border probably bought cartridges from him.”

“Then this proves little,” Whitehawk said.

“No.”

Ethan looked at the map.

“But somebody wants me to think it proves something.”

Ayana sat opposite him.

“Or wants us to think it.”

Ethan nodded.

That distinction mattered.

Whoever had created the trail of evidence wanted mistrust.

White men suspicious of Apache.

Apache suspicious of ranchers.

Ethan suspicious of Samuel.

Perhaps everyone suspicious of everyone.

Whitehawk asked, “What happens tomorrow?”

Ethan studied the black cross.

Then suddenly he noticed something.

The mark was not exactly on the pass.

It was half an inch east.

“What’s there?”

Whitehawk leaned closer.

“An old dry creek.”

“Dry?”

“Most years.”

“Where does it lead?”

“To the San Pilar River.”

Ethan stood.

His ranch sat downstream from the San Pilar.

So did three other ranches.

And the territorial freight road.

He felt the pieces moving.

“Dynamite isn’t for the canyon.”

Ayana rose.

“Then what?”

“The river.”

By noon the next day, Ethan, Ayana, Whitehawk and ten riders reached the dry creek.

They found fresh excavation near a natural stone shelf.

Someone had placed blasting charges beneath it.

Enough dynamite to collapse thousands of tons of rock into the creek channel.

Ethan stared at the arrangement.

“Why?”

Whitehawk answered.

“Water.”

Ethan looked downstream.

Then he understood.

Spring runoff from the mountains entered the creek several miles north before joining the San Pilar.

If the shelf collapsed, the debris would redirect the flow west.

The river feeding Ethan’s ranch and several neighboring properties would shrink dramatically.

Some wells might survive.

Others would not.

Cattle operations could collapse within a season.

“Somebody wants the valley dry.”

Ayana’s gaze sharpened.

“To force ranchers away?”

“Yes.”

“But why involve our village?”

Ethan walked the site.

Then he found the answer.

A coil of rope.

A leather pouch.

And three arrows.

Apache arrows.

Placed beneath a bush.

Too neatly.

Too obviously.

He picked one up.

Whitehawk’s face became stone.

Ethan whispered, “They blow the creek. Then leave this.”

“People downstream blame us.”

“Yes.”

Ayana looked toward Ethan.

“And your horse?”

He swallowed.

“My horse carries the map from my ranch to your village.”

Whitehawk understood.

“You become evidence that we planned together.”

Ethan nodded slowly.

“Or evidence I was murdered after discovering the plan.”

A rifle sounded in the distance.

Not a shot at them.

A signal.

Then another answered from the southern ridge.

Whitehawk immediately raised his hand.

Everyone mounted.

Dust appeared beyond the canyon.

Riders.

Dozens.

Ethan’s chest tightened.