Another line.
“Vane among them.”
Corvin's breathing stopped.
He continued.
“Something is wrong.”
The next page had been torn.
The page after that was blank.
Then another entry.
“Must protect the child.”
Corvin stared.
There was no explanation.
But beneath those words was a crude drawing.
A canyon.
A tree.
Three circles.
And a mark near the eastern wall.
Lena looked over his shoulder.
She immediately understood.
“The graves.”
Corvin nodded.
His father had known.
He had hidden the location.
But why?
Tomas entered.
Corvin showed him the drawing.
The old warrior closed his eyes.
“Our elders believed the dead were buried somewhere near Black Ridge.”
“We can find them.”
Tomas shook his head.
“Not without Vane finding us first.”
Corvin looked toward the window.
“Then we move before he does.”
The elder smiled faintly.
“You have your father's courage.”
Corvin looked at him.
“I don't know if I have courage.”
“You gave water to a dying stranger while knowing she might be your enemy.”
Corvin shook his head.
“That wasn't courage.”
Tomas answered quietly.
“Perhaps not. But sometimes mercy is the first form of courage.”
By midday, the ranch had become a temporary camp.
The Apache warriors remained disciplined.
There was no looting.
No shouting.
No violence.
Corvin began to realize how badly the stories he had heard as a boy had simplified people.
He had been taught to fear them.
They had been taught to fear men like him.
Both sides had inherited memories shaped by blood.
And neither side had inherited the whole truth.
Lena sat beneath the shade of the barn.
Corvin approached.
“Why did you come alone yesterday?”
She looked at him.
“I didn't.”
He frowned.
“Where were the others?”
“Behind me.”
“Then why didn't they help?”
“Because I told them not to.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the well.
“I needed to know whether the stories about you were true.”
“What stories?”
“That Abram Torne's son was different.”
Corvin laughed bitterly.
“I'm not different.”
“You are.”
“How?”
“You gave water without asking what it would cost.”
Corvin looked away.
Lena continued.
“You could have refused me.”
“I almost did.”
“But you didn't.”
He sat beside her.
For a while neither spoke.
Then Corvin asked, “What happened to your mother?”
Lena looked toward the horizon.
“She died protecting me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“She told me to remember two things.”
“What?”
“Never let hatred decide what truth means.”
“And the second?”
Lena looked directly at him.
“Never forget the person who showed mercy when everyone else chose fear.”
Corvin said nothing.
That evening, a rider arrived from the southern trail.
He was carrying a message.
Vane knew.
He had learned that Lena was at the ranch.
And he was coming.
Tomas gathered his people.
“We can defend this place.”
Corvin looked at the old ranch.
“It isn't a fortress.”
“We have three hundred warriors.”
“And Vane knows that.”
Lena frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn't need to attack us.”
Corvin pointed toward the horizon.
“He can destroy the well.”
Everyone became silent.
The ranch depended on the water.
The surrounding communities did too.
If Vane poisoned or blocked the source, the region would be thrown into chaos.
“He wants us to leave,” Lena said.
“No,” Corvin replied.
“He wants the well.”
They spent the night preparing.
But instead of preparing for a battle, Corvin prepared something else.
A trap.
His father had taught him that a rancher survived not by overpowering nature but by understanding it.