Worse, some officers were selling weapons and ammunition to men who attacked peaceful camps.
The attacks were then blamed on the Lakota.
It created fear.
Fear created demands for military protection.
And military protection created money.
Clara had discovered financial records.
She had copied names.
She had hidden evidence.
She had planned to send it east.
But she became sick before she could.
Thomas lowered the letter.
“You knew her?”
Anya shook her head.
“My brother did.”
“Then how did you get this?”
“He found it.”
“Where?”
Anya looked at the floor.
“After she died.”
Thomas stood.
“My wife died in this cabin.”
“I know.”
“You were here?”
“No.”
“Then who was?”
Anya hesitated.
“My brother.”
Thomas stared at her.
He suddenly remembered the night Clara had become seriously ill.
A knock at the door.
She had refused to let him answer.
He had heard voices outside.
At the time, he had assumed she was delirious.
Now he understood.
Someone had come for the papers.
Thomas looked toward the cedar trunk.
He opened it.
Inside were Clara's clothes.
Her winter coat.
A blue dress.
Old letters.
And beneath them, wrapped in cloth, was a small wooden box.
Thomas had never seen it.
He opened the box.
Inside were papers.
Names.
Dates.
Receipts.
And a list of men.
Several names were familiar.
Thomas recognized two ranchers.
A merchant.
A sheriff's deputy.
And Captain Silas Vane.
His hands went cold.
Anya watched him.
“They are coming,” she said.
Thomas closed the box.
“We have to leave.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because they want paper.”
“They will kill us.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't sound like a reason to stay.”
Anya shook her head.
“They will search the farm.”
Thomas understood.
“If we run, they follow.”
“Yes.”
“If we stay…”
“They come here.”
Thomas looked around the cabin.
Forty acres.
Six horses.
A barn.
A well.
A rifle.
Not much.
But enough to defend.
Thomas walked to the window.
He thought about Clara.
Three years of grief.
Three years believing her death had been nothing more than bad luck.
Now he discovered she had died carrying a secret.
A secret that had survived her.
And somehow found its way back to him.
He looked at Anya.
“What do you need?”
She seemed surprised.
“The truth.”
“You already have it.”
“No.”
She touched the papers.
“We need someone who will believe it.”
Thomas thought of Fort Harrow.
Nobody there would believe him.
Not immediately.
But there was one person who might.
Elias Mercer.
A newspaper editor.
Mercer had once told Thomas that he would publish anything if someone could prove it.
Thomas saddled two horses.
They left before sunset.
Anya rode badly because of her injured ankle.
Thomas stayed beside her.
They had traveled less than five miles when gunfire cracked behind them.
A bullet struck the dirt.
Thomas pulled Anya from the saddle.
They fell behind a low ridge.
Three riders appeared.
Thomas raised his rifle.
He fired once.
One rider fell.
The others turned.
Thomas fired again.
The second rider dropped behind his horse.
The third fled.
Anya stared at Thomas.
“You killed him.”
Thomas lowered the rifle.
“I warned them.”
She looked at him.
Then nodded.
They continued toward Fort Harrow.
But they did not know that the rider who escaped was carrying news.
By midnight, Captain Silas Vane knew Thomas Weller had the papers.
And he gave one order.
“Bring them back.”
Alive if possible.
Dead if necessary.
Fort Harrow
Fort Harrow looked different from a distance.
Thomas had always seen it as a place of order.
Straight walls.
Whitewashed buildings.
Flags.
Soldiers marching.
But when he entered the settlement beside Anya, he saw something else.
Fear.
People looked away.
Men lowered their voices.
A merchant stopped talking when Thomas passed.
Thomas understood.
Someone had already started spreading the story.
He was harboring a dangerous Native woman.
He was a traitor.
A sympathizer.
Maybe worse.
Elias Mercer met them in the back room of his newspaper office.
He was sixty, thin, gray-haired, and permanently covered in ink.