The metallic clinking came again.

She removed several carefully wrapped objects and placed them on the table.

The first was a brass compass.

The second was a silver cylindrical case badly tarnished around the edges.

The third was a bundle of folded papers tied with a blue cord.

Eli stared at them.

“What are those?”

Serina pushed the silver case toward him.

“A dead man’s secret.”

The dead man had been Lieutenant Nathaniel Rusk, an Army surveyor who had crossed the valley in 1876.

Eli remembered him.

Barely.

Rusk and four soldiers had camped near the southern creek for two nights. Eli had sold them oats, shared coffee, and answered questions about the valley.

Three months later Rusk had died from injuries suffered when his horse fell in rocky country near Socorro.

At least, that was the story Eli had heard.

Serina opened the silver case.

Inside were narrow sheets covered with numbers, drawings, and geological notes.

Chaska pointed toward one map.

A line crossed Eli’s ranch.

Beneath it someone had written:

SUBTERRANEAN FLOW — ESTIMATED HIGH VOLUME.

Eli frowned.

“I don’t understand.”

Chaska pointed to the northern pasture.

“Beneath your land is water.”

“There’s water beneath half New Mexico if you dig far enough.”

“Not like this.”

Serina unfolded another sheet.

Rusk had marked a buried limestone channel entering the valley from the mountains.

According to his notes, the underground water was sufficient to feed several large wells continuously even during prolonged drought.

The strongest point for access lay beneath—

Eli stopped reading.

“My north pasture.”

“Yes,” Chaska said.

Suddenly the offers made sense.

Not completely.

But enough.

Voss had not been offering extraordinary amounts because he loved Eli’s scenery.

He wanted what was beneath it.

“Why didn’t Rusk report this?”

“He intended to,” Serina said.

“What stopped him?”

Waya’s voice was flat.

“He died.”

Eli looked at her.

“You think Voss killed an Army officer?”

“We think Rusk’s official notebook disappeared after his death.”

Chaska tapped the papers.

“These are copies.”

“How did you get them?”

“His wife.”

Serina’s expression softened.

“She makes blankets in Las Vegas. I met her while selling silverwork. Rusk had written to her before he died because he had become frightened.”

“Of Voss?”

“Of someone paying him to alter the survey.”

Eli stared again at the map.

“Why bring this to me?”

Chaska did not answer immediately.

Then she said, “Because water is not the only thing Voss wants from you.”

Before Eli could ask what that meant, hoofbeats sounded outside.

Not three horses this time.

At least six.

Waya was on her feet before Eli reached the window.

A black carriage stood beside the gate.

Three mounted men waited behind it.

And stepping down from the carriage in a pale linen suit was Harlan Voss.

Eli felt something cold travel through him.

Voss had never visited the ranch personally before.

Apparently today was full of firsts.

“Stay here,” Eli said.

Waya raised an eyebrow.

Eli looked at her bow.

“All right. Do whatever you want.”

“That was my intention.”

Harlan Voss removed his hat before stepping onto the porch.

He was perhaps forty-five, broad through the chest, with carefully trimmed sideburns and the kind of pleasant face people trusted until they noticed how little warmth existed behind the eyes.