"Crowe doesn't like men who interfere with his business. Two years ago, a rancher named Thomas Avery refused to sell his land. Crowe sent three men to speak with him. Avery shot one, wounded another, and chased the third off his property."
"What happened?"
"Two weeks later, Avery was found dead beside his well. The coroner called it an accident."
"Was it?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Because I buried him."
The room fell silent.
Bell looked toward the window.
"His wife left the territory. His sons went to live with relatives in Missouri. His ranch was sold at auction for less than half its value. Crowe bought it the next day."
Elias felt the familiar pressure in his chest.
He had seen this pattern too many times.
A man resisted.
A threat followed.
A death was explained away.
And the people left behind were expected to accept the explanation because challenging it would be too dangerous.
"Did Avery have any friends?" Elias asked.
"Some."
"Where are they now?"
Bell gave him a sad smile.
"Some are dead. Others have learned to keep their heads down."
Elias looked at his hands.
He had spent years convincing himself that courage was a luxury reserved for men who had something to lose. Men with families. Men with land. Men who mattered to somebody.
He had told himself that because he had no family, no home, and no future worth protecting, he had no reason to fight.
But the truth was the opposite.
He had used his loneliness as an excuse to avoid responsibility.
And every time he rode away, somebody else paid for it.
"All right," he said.
Bell frowned.
"All right what?"
"I'll help you."
Anna studied him.
"You understand that Crowe could kill you?"
"Yes."
"And you still intend to do this?"
Elias picked up his hat.
"Miss Dawson, I have spent ten years doing everything I could to avoid dying. I haven't found that it makes a man particularly useful."
He stepped outside.
The afternoon was fading.
Clouds had gathered above the western hills, and the wind carried the smell of distant rain.
At the livery, Ranger lifted his head when Elias approached.
The stallion nickered softly.
Elias rested his forehead against the horse's neck.
"We're staying," he murmured.
Ranger breathed against his shoulder.
"I know. I don't like it either."
He saddled the horse and checked his equipment. The old revolver went into its holster. A Winchester rifle, purchased years earlier in a town whose name he had forgotten, went into a saddle scabbard. He carried twenty rounds of ammunition, a small knife, a length of rope, and the weathered coat that had protected him through more storms than he could count.
He also carried the Bible.
He had not opened it in months.
The leather cover was cracked, and the pages smelled faintly of dust and old paper. Inside the front cover, his mother's handwriting remained legible.
Elias, remember that a man is not measured by how far he travels, but by what he is willing to stand beside.
She had written it shortly before she died.
At the time, he had considered it a mother's attempt to make her son sentimental.
Later, after the violence in Kansas, he had begun to understand that she had been warning him.
He closed the Bible and placed it in his saddlebag.
As evening approached, he rode toward the boardinghouse.
Charles Whitaker was waiting in a second-floor room, surrounded by maps, papers, and books. He was a thin man in his late fifties with white hair and a pair of round spectacles. His hands trembled slightly as he folded a map and placed it inside a leather case.
"Mr. Ward," he said. "Mr. Bell tells me you're willing to escort me to the spring."
"That's right."
"Do you understand the danger?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever been shot?"
"Twice."
Whitaker looked alarmed.
"Did it hurt?"
"More than I'd expected."
"Then perhaps you understand why I'm reluctant to proceed."
Elias examined the maps.
"Mr. Whitaker, if you stay here, Crowe's men may burn the boardinghouse. If you go alone, they may kill you on the road. If you wait for the sheriff, you may wait until there's nothing left to investigate."
The surveyor swallowed.
"And if I go with you?"
"Then we have a chance."
Whitaker stared at him.
"A chance of what?"
"Finding out whether you're right."
The old man looked down at his papers.
Then, slowly, he began to pack.
They left Mercy Crossing shortly after midnight.
Anna rode a small gray mare. Whitaker sat on a borrowed gelding, carrying his maps in a waterproof case beneath his coat. Elias rode ahead, with Ranger picking his way through the darkness.
The town disappeared behind them.
Above the prairie, the stars shone through broken clouds.
For the first hour, nobody spoke.
Then Whitaker drew closer.
"Mr. Ward?"
"What is it?"
"May I ask why you're helping us?"
Elias kept his eyes on the trail.
"No."
The surveyor waited.
After a while, he nodded.
"Fair enough."
They rode on.
Near the northern ridge, Elias stopped and dismounted.
He crouched beside the trail.
A fresh hoofprint marked the soft earth.
Then another.
And another.
He counted at least six horses, all traveling in the same direction.
Someone had passed along the trail less than an hour earlier.
Elias touched the ground.
The hoofprints were deep, indicating heavily shod horses carrying riders.
He rose and looked toward the canyon.
"Get down," he whispered.
Anna immediately dismounted.
Whitaker followed, nearly losing his balance.
Elias led Ranger behind a cluster of rocks and tied the reins to a low branch. Then he crept to the edge of the ridge and peered into the darkness.
Far below, a faint orange glow flickered among the rocks.
A campfire.
He counted six men around it.