"About ten."
"What was her name?"
"Ruth."
Anna went very still.
Elias noticed.
"What is it?"
She looked toward the Dawson house, visible at the end of the street.
"Ruth Dawson?"
He stared at her.
"Yes."
Anna swallowed.
"Ruth is my friend. She came to live with us after her parents died. Her father was a teamster who worked the freight routes through Kansas."
The world seemed to tilt beneath Elias's feet.
He gripped the church railing.
"Her father's name?"
"Samuel Dawson."
For several seconds, he could not breathe.
The boy beside the wagon.
The dying man in the grass.
The promise he had abandoned.
The girl he had failed to find.
All of it had led him here.
Anna stepped closer.
"Elias?"
He shook his head.
"I need to see her."
"She is resting."
"Please."
Anna studied his face.
Then she nodded.
They walked toward the Dawson house in silence.
Ruth lay on a narrow bed near the window, her injured leg supported by folded blankets. She was pale and thin, with dark hair spread across the pillow. A small scar ran along her jaw.
When Elias entered, she opened her eyes.
For a moment, she seemed confused.
Then she recognized him.
"You came back," she whispered.
Elias stopped beside the bed.
He had imagined this moment for ten years.
He had imagined explaining himself, apologizing, offering money, or telling her that he had been young and frightened and foolish.
Now that he stood before her, every explanation seemed worthless.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Ruth studied him.
"For what?"
Elias lowered his head.
"Your father asked me to find you. I promised him I would. Then I left."
She watched him quietly.
"Did he die?"
"Yes."
"Was he afraid?"
Elias closed his eyes.
"No. He was worried about you."
Ruth turned toward the window.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she asked, "Did he say my name?"
"Yes."
Elias reached into his coat and removed the small piece of paper he had carried inside his Bible for ten years.
It was faded and worn, the ink nearly gone.
But the name remained.
Ruth Dawson.
He placed it on the bedside table.
"I should have come sooner."
Ruth touched the paper with one finger.
"You did come."
Elias looked at her.
She did not smile.
She did not tell him that he was forgiven.
She simply turned her face toward the window and closed her eyes.
It was more than he deserved.
And somehow, it was enough to make him want to become a better man.
The Night Mercy Crossing Stood Together
Silas Crowe returned to town shortly after midnight.
He came with fourteen riders.
They approached from the south in a long line, moving slowly beneath the moonlight. Their horses were fresh, their rifles loaded, and their confidence restored by the belief that fear had already done most of their work for them.
Crowe rode at the front.
He expected the town to be quiet.
He expected the sheriff to remain obedient.
He expected Benjamin Bell to be preparing a sale agreement, and the ranchers to be hiding in their houses, waiting for the next threat.
Instead, he found the main street blocked by wagons.
Lanterns burned in the windows.
Men stood behind makeshift barricades with rifles in their hands.
Women watched from doorways, holding shotguns and revolvers.
At the northern end of the street, the church bell rang once.
Crowe pulled his horse to a halt.
"What is this?"
Nobody answered.
He rode forward a few yards.
Then he saw Elias Ward standing in the middle of the road.
The stranger wore his weathered coat, and a fresh bandage crossed his forehead. His revolver hung at his hip. Beside him stood Sheriff Briggs, Benjamin Bell, and Amos Hobbs.
Behind them were thirty townspeople.
Crowe's smile disappeared.
"Mr. Ward."
"Mr. Crowe."
"You appear to have misunderstood the situation."
"No," Elias said. "I think I've understood it rather well."
Crowe glanced toward the barricades.
"You've convinced these people that they can stand against me?"
"I didn't convince them of anything."
"Then why are they here?"
"Because you gave them a reason."
Crowe laughed.
"You think a few frightened farmers can stop me? I have men who know how to fight. Men who have killed before."
Elias looked at the riders.
"So have some of these people."
A woman near the church raised her rifle.
Crowe recognized her.
Martha Avery, widow of the rancher who had died beside his well.
Her hands trembled, but she did not lower the weapon.
"You killed my husband," she said.
Crowe's face hardened.