"Whose?"
"Everyone's."
Amos leaned against the stall door.
"There's a spring north of town. Best water source in this part of the territory. The old ranchers have been using it for generations. Crowe says the spring and the surrounding land belong to him because of a survey filed in the county seat."
"Do they?"
"No."
"Then he can take the matter to court."
Amos gave a dry laugh.
"You ever been to court in this territory?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"The judge asked whether I had money for a lawyer. I said no. He told me to come back when I did."
For the first time, Amos smiled.
"Then you understand."
Elias tightened the strap on his bedroll.
"I understand that men with money tend to get what they want."
"Not always."
"No?"
"No. Sometimes they get what they deserve."
There was something in the old man's voice that made Elias look at him again.
Before he could ask another question, a bell rang outside.
Not the church bell.
A small iron bell above the general store.
Amos straightened.
"That's Crowe's men."
Elias walked to the open stable door.
Four riders had entered the main street. They wore dust-colored coats and carried rifles across their saddles. The man at the front rode a pale gray horse and wore a black hat with a silver band.
He was tall, narrow-faced, and clean-shaven, with the polished appearance of someone who believed dirt was something that happened to other people.
He dismounted outside the general store and handed his reins to one of the younger riders.
The storekeeper emerged.
"Mr. Crowe."
"Mr. Bell."
"I told you yesterday. My answer hasn't changed."
Crowe smiled as though the storekeeper had offered a joke.
"Then perhaps you should hear the offer again."
"I don't intend to sell."
"Everyone intends to sell when the price is right."
"My wife and I built this place. My son was born in that room upstairs. I'm not selling it."
Crowe glanced toward the burned building beside the store.
"That's unfortunate. Property values have a way of changing after a fire."
The street grew quiet.
Elias felt his jaw tighten.
He knew that kind of man.
He had met men like Crowe in cattle camps, mining towns, and railroad settlements. They rarely shouted. They did not need to. Their power came from the assumption that everyone else would eventually surrender.
Crowe turned slightly and noticed Elias standing in the stable doorway.
His eyes moved over the stranger with quick, dismissive interest.
"Passing through?"
"Yes," Elias replied.
"Good. Then you'll have no reason to involve yourself in local business."
"I don't."
Crowe studied him for another moment, then smiled.
"That's wise."
He returned his attention to the storekeeper.
"You have until Friday, Mr. Bell. After that, my offer expires."
Bell's face had gone pale.
"And if I still refuse?"
Crowe adjusted his gloves.
"Then I suppose you'll have to learn how expensive stubbornness can be."
He mounted his horse.
The four riders moved toward the southern end of town, their hooves striking the packed earth in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Nobody spoke until they disappeared around the bend.
Then Amos spat into the dust.
"Friday," he muttered. "That's three days."
Elias turned away.
He had heard enough.
He had no land in Mercy Crossing. No family. No reason to remain. Whatever Crowe intended to do, it was not Elias Ward's responsibility to stop him.
He filled his canteens, purchased oats, and paid Amos for the stall.
Then he checked the revolver at his hip.
The old weapon had been a gift from a man who had died long before Elias learned to understand why certain people kept guns even when they hoped never to use them. Its wooden grip was cracked. One chamber sometimes resisted turning. The barrel had been cleaned so many times that the metal was worn smooth along its edges.
It was not a weapon he trusted.
That was why he carried it.
A man who trusted a gun too much was likely to use it for the wrong reasons.
By noon, Elias had packed everything and mounted Ranger.
He rode north out of town, intending to take the road around the spring and continue west.
He passed the church, the schoolhouse, and a row of small homes with laundry hanging from their porches. Children watched him from behind a fence. An old woman swept dust from her steps. A dog barked at Ranger until the stallion turned its head and silenced it with a look.
At the edge of town, Elias glanced back once.
Mercy Crossing lay beneath the pale afternoon sky, small and vulnerable, its damaged buildings standing like broken teeth against the prairie.
He turned away.
He had spent ten years learning not to look back.
But before he reached the northern ridge, he heard the sound of a horse running behind him.
"Sir!"
Elias stopped Ranger.
A boy came galloping up the road, his red scarf fluttering behind him. He could not have been older than twelve. His horse was a small chestnut mare with white socks and a foamy neck.
The boy pulled up beside Elias, breathing hard.
"Are you Elias Ward?"
Elias looked at him carefully.
"Who wants to know?"
"My name's Samuel Dawson. My sister said I should find you."
Elias felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
He had not given his name to anyone except Amos Hobbs.
"Why?"
The boy swallowed.
"Because she says you're the only man in town who looked at those riders like you weren't afraid of them."
Elias stared at him.
Behind the boy, the road stretched toward Mercy Crossing. Beyond the road lay the burned ruins, the frightened townspeople, and a man named Silas Crowe who had three days to turn a threat into action.
Elias could have told the boy he was mistaken.
He could have explained that courage was not the same as anger, and that a man who had survived long enough to become cautious was not necessarily a man who had forgotten how to fight.
He could have turned Ranger west and never thought of Mercy Crossing again.
Instead, he asked, "Where's your sister?"
"At home."
"Is she hurt?"
"Not like Ruth. She works for Mr. Bell. She heard something last night."
"What did she hear?"
The boy looked over his shoulder.
"She said Crowe's men are coming back tonight."
Elias closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Ten years.
Ten years of empty roads, strange towns, and mornings when nobody knew his name.
Ten years of telling himself that the safest way to live was to make certain he had nothing worth losing.
He had become very good at leaving.