Her expression hardened.
"Where is he?"
The scout answered quietly.
She translated.
"Creed escaped."
Eleanor closed her eyes.
"Of course."
"But two of his men were captured."
She opened them.
"Alive?"
"Yes."
"Did they talk?"
Salina nodded.
"One says Harrow ordered the ranch destroyed."
Eleanor stared.
The words seemed almost unreal.
For four years, she had lived beneath the weight of threats nobody could prove.
Now two men had been captured carrying out the attack.
There were witnesses.
There might finally be a way to make the truth visible.
But Salina was not finished.
"One of the men also said something about your husband."
Eleanor stopped breathing.
"What?"
Salina hesitated.
"Eleanor…"
"Tell me."
The woman looked toward Nantan.
Then back.
"He says Daniel Whitmore did not die in an accident."
The world went silent.
Eleanor stared at her.
She had imagined hearing those words many times.
In dreams.
In nightmares.
During lonely evenings when she stared at the photograph above the fireplace.
But now that someone had finally spoken them, she felt no triumph.
Only a terrible emptiness.
"Who killed him?"
Salina's expression tightened.
"The man says Silas Creed was there."
Eleanor looked toward the southern horizon.
Somewhere beyond those mountains, Creed was still riding.
Still breathing.
Still free.
And for the first time in four years, Eleanor knew that her husband's death had not been an accident.
She sat on a stone beside the wagon.
Her legs would no longer hold her.
Salina approached.
"Eleanor."
But Eleanor shook her head.
"Please."
Salina stopped.
For several minutes, Eleanor stared at the ground.
Then she began to cry.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
She cried with the desperate grief of a woman who had spent four years forcing herself to remain strong because nobody else would keep the ranch alive.
She cried for Daniel.
For the house.
For the future they had imagined.
For every morning she had woken alone.
And for the terrible knowledge that his death might have been prevented if powerful men had not valued land more than human life.
Salina sat beside her.
She did not offer easy comfort.
She simply remained there.
After a long time, Eleanor wiped her face.
"I'm sorry."
Salina shook her head.
"Do not apologize."
"I must look ridiculous."
"You look like someone who has carried too much."
Eleanor stared at her.
Salina continued gently.
"My father used to say that even mountains break when the pressure beneath them becomes too great."
Eleanor managed a faint smile.
"Your father sounds wise."
"He is."
"Is he alive?"
Salina nodded.
"He is waiting for us."
"Where?"
She looked toward the northern mountains.
"At a place no railroad man has ever been invited to see."
Eleanor frowned.
"Why are we going there?"
Salina glanced toward Nantan.
"Because my brother is not the only person who knows what Victor Harrow has done."
The canyon settlement lay hidden beyond a narrow passage between two enormous cliffs.
From the outside, the entrance looked like an ordinary gap in the mountains.
Beyond it opened a broad basin filled with cottonwood trees, small gardens, shelters, and a winding stream.
Eleanor had lived in Arizona for six years without imagining such a place existed.
Children played near the water.
Women worked beside cooking fires.
Horses grazed on a distant slope.
Several elderly people sat beneath the shade, talking quietly.
As the wagon approached, people looked up.
Then someone shouted Nantan's name.
A crowd gathered.
Salina spoke rapidly to the first man who approached.
He disappeared toward the center of the settlement.
Within moments, an elderly man emerged from a large shelter.
He was tall despite his age, with long gray hair tied behind his head and a weathered face marked by deep lines.
He walked directly toward the wagon.
Nantan tried to sit.
The old man raised one hand.
"Stay."
The single word carried enough authority to make even Doctor Mercer stop speaking.
Salina bowed her head slightly.
"Father."
The old man looked at his wounded son.
Then at the doctor.
Finally, his gaze settled on Eleanor.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he spoke in careful English.
"You brought my son home."
Eleanor swallowed.
"He was already trying very hard to get here."
The old man studied her.
"What is your name?"
"Eleanor Whitmore."
His expression changed.
"Whitmore?"
"Yes."
He looked toward Salina.
They exchanged a few quiet words.
Then he turned back.
"Your husband was Daniel Whitmore?"
Eleanor felt her chest tighten.
"Yes."
The old man closed his eyes.
For a moment, he seemed to be remembering something.
Then he said, "I knew your husband."
Eleanor stared.
"You did?"
"He helped my family during a winter when soldiers closed the southern route."
She remembered Salina's story.
"The storm."
"Yes."
The old man stepped closer.
"Your husband was a good man."
Eleanor lowered her gaze.
"He was."
A long silence followed.
Then the old man held out his hand.
"My name is Tomas."
She shook it.
His grip was firm.
"You are welcome here."
Eleanor looked around the settlement.
She knew how unusual the invitation was.
These families had good reason to fear strangers.
Especially strangers connected to military and territorial authorities.
She looked at Tomas.
"Thank you."
He nodded.
"Rest. Eat. Your questions can wait until evening."
Eleanor almost smiled.
"I have quite a few."