“At least forty.”
Ayana climbed onto her horse.
“Can we remove the dynamite?”
“Not before they reach us.”
Whitehawk gave orders.
His people spread across the rocks.
Ethan stared at the approaching riders.
Then recognized the man at the front.
A gray stallion.
Silver saddle fittings.
Dark coat despite the heat.
Samuel Walker.
Ethan felt something break inside him.
“No.”
Ayana looked at him.
“You know him.”
“My uncle.”
The riders stopped fifty yards away.
Samuel removed his hat.
He was fifty-seven, handsome in the way money preserved certain men—silver hair, trimmed beard, immaculate clothes.
“Ethan!”
His voice echoed against stone.
“Thank God.”
Ethan stepped forward.
Samuel looked genuinely relieved.
“I’ve been searching since yesterday.”
“With forty armed men?”
Samuel’s face changed.
Then he saw Whitehawk.
Understanding appeared.
“You’ve fallen in with them.”
Ethan almost smiled.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The sentence you needed me to hear.”
Samuel frowned.
Ethan held up the cartridge casing.
Samuel’s face remained calm.
“Those are sold everywhere.”
“I know.”
“Then what is this?”
“A trap.”
Samuel stared at him.
“Ethan, come here.”
“No.”
Samuel lowered his voice.
“Your horse came back yesterday without you.”
Ethan froze.
“What?”
Samuel continued.
“Jasper reached my freight station before sunset. Blood on the saddle. Apache rope around his neck.”
Ethan’s heart stopped.
Behind him Ayana whispered, “That is impossible.”
Ethan agreed.
Jasper had been in Whitehawk’s village at sunset.
He had seen him.
Touched him.
Samuel was lying.
Unless—
Ethan looked toward the valley.
Two horses.
Same appearance.
Same markings.
Someone had prepared another gelding to resemble Jasper.
This conspiracy had been planned for weeks.
Samuel raised his voice.
“We assumed you’d been killed.”
One of the armed men shouted, “Let Walker come out!”
Samuel gestured toward Whitehawk.
“These people attacked survey crews last month.”
Whitehawk said something quietly.
Ayana translated.
“My father says no survey crew was attacked.”
Samuel shook his head.
“Of course he says that.”
Ethan walked toward Samuel.
Ayana caught his arm.
“Ethan.”
“I need to know.”
“Know what?”
“How far he’ll take the lie.”
Ethan continued until he stood twenty yards from his uncle.
Samuel dismounted.
“Come home.”
“You planted evidence.”
Samuel’s expression hardened.
“No.”
“You sent a horse that looked like mine to your station.”
For the first time, something flickered in Samuel’s eyes.
Ethan saw it.
Tiny.
But enough.
“You’re frightened,” Samuel said.
“I know you.”
“Do you?”
“I raised you.”
“You financed my ranch.”
“Yes.”
“You chose that ranch.”
Samuel became still.
Ethan felt his pulse quicken.
The ranch had never been random.
Samuel had insisted the land was an opportunity.
Had arranged the loan.
Had even negotiated the previous owner down.
“Why that property?”
Samuel said nothing.
Ethan took another step.
“Why my ranch?”
Behind Samuel, several riders shifted uneasily.
They were hired men.
They didn’t know the whole plan.
Good.
Ethan raised his voice.
“My ranch controls twelve miles of river frontage.”
Samuel’s face hardened.
“It controls nothing.”
“It does if the water disappears.”
Silence spread.
Ethan turned so the riders could hear.
“He blows the creek, redirects the river, then blames Whitehawk’s people. Ranches fail. Families sell cheap.”
