He knew that name.
Hale had once served beside the cavalry.
More importantly, Hale had been one of the officers Maren trusted.
"Where is he?"
"Santa Fe."
"That's two days."
"Three with my wound."
Maren looked at her.
Then at the mountains.
Then toward the direction Silas Vane had ridden.
"We leave in an hour."
Mara blinked.
"You'll take me?"
"No."
He mounted.
"I'll take you to Santa Fe."
She smiled faintly.
"That's the same thing."
"No. It isn't."
They rode before noon.
Mara sat behind Maren, holding the saddle horn.
The trail wound through dry country where every ridge looked like another ridge and every shadow could hide a man.
Maren noticed that Mara rarely spoke.
He also noticed she watched everything.
Tracks.
Clouds.
Birds.
Rocks.
"You were trained," he said.
"By my father."
"To read trails?"
"To survive."
"Same thing."
She looked at him.
"You were a scout."
"Once."
"What happened?"
"My wife died."
Mara became quiet.
After several minutes, she said,
"I'm sorry."
Maren nodded.
They rode until dusk.
They made camp beneath an overhanging cliff.
Mara sat beside the fire.
"Her name was Ruth?"
Maren looked at her sharply.
"How did you know?"
"You said your wife died."
"I didn't say her name."
Mara pointed toward his saddle.
A small wooden carving hung from it.
The letters R.C. were burned into the surface.
"Ruth Crowe."
Maren looked at the carving.
"My daughter," he said.
Mara froze.
"You had a daughter?"
"No."
He touched the carving.
"Ruth was my wife's name."
Mara nodded.
"I understand."
Later, while Mara slept, Maren sat awake.
Something bothered him.
The map.
The silver hawk.
The missing ledger.
Silas Vane.
And a name he had not thought about in years.
Jonathan Hale.
Maren looked at Mara sleeping beside the fire.
He had promised to take her to Hale.
But there was something she did not know.
Maren had stopped trusting the law six years ago.
And he had a very good reason.
Men Who Followed the Tracks
They were attacked the next afternoon.
Maren heard them before Mara did.
He raised one hand.
The horse stopped.
"What is it?" Mara whispered.
"Riders."
"How many?"
"Four."
She looked around.
"I don't see them."
"That's the point."
Maren dismounted.
He examined the ground.
Fresh tracks.
Iron-shod horses.
Moving fast.
"They're following us."
Mara's face went pale.
"Vane."
"Probably."
"What do we do?"
Maren pointed toward a narrow canyon.
"We go there."
"Why?"
"Because four men on horses don't fit."
They entered the canyon.
Maren led the horse through a gap barely wide enough for the animal.
Then he stopped.
"Get off."
Mara obeyed.
They climbed into a narrow opening between two boulders.
Maren covered the horse's mouth with cloth.
Minutes later, riders appeared.
Four men.
Silas was not among them.
The leader dismounted.
"Tracks come this way."
Another man pointed.
"They're close."
Maren waited.
His old instincts returned.
He counted breaths.
Watched shadows.
Measured distance.
The first rider walked past the rocks.
Maren struck.
The man fell without a sound.
Mara gasped.
Maren caught the man's rifle.
A second attacker fired.
The canyon exploded with gunfire.
Maren pushed Mara down.
"Stay low!"
He fired once.
The second man dropped.
The remaining two fled.
Maren did not pursue.
He waited.
Silence returned.
Mara slowly lifted her head.
"Are they dead?"
"Two."
She stared at him.
"You killed them."
"They came to kill us."
Mara looked at the fallen men.
Then at Maren.
"You've done this before."
"Yes."
"How many?"
He looked away.
"Enough."
That evening they searched the attackers.
One carried a letter.
Maren read it.
His face hardened.
"What?"
He handed it to Mara.
It was a message from Silas.
Find the woman. Find the ledger. Crowe must not reach Santa Fe.
Mara looked at him.
"Crowe?"
Maren's expression was unreadable.
"They know who you are traveling with."
"Why would that matter?"
"I don't know."
But he did.
Six years ago, Maren had been a scout under Colonel Daniel Mercer.
Mercer had died during an expedition that disappeared in the same territory marked on Mara's map.
Officially, Mercer had been killed in an Apache attack.
Maren had never believed it.
He had seen the tracks.
There had been no Apache arrows.
No stolen horses.
No battle signs.
Only cavalry boots.
And one black hawk medallion hanging from a dead soldier's hand.
Maren had reported it.
His report disappeared.
Two days later, he was discharged.
Then Ruth died.
Maren had spent years convincing himself the two events were unrelated.
Now he was no longer sure.
The next morning, they continued toward Santa Fe.
Near sunset, they reached an abandoned mission.
Maren wanted shelter.
Instead, they found a man waiting inside.
He was old.
Thin.
Dressed in a black coat.
His hands trembled.
"Jonathan Hale?"
The man looked at Maren.
Then his eyes widened.
"Maren Crowe."
Maren drew his pistol.
Hale lifted both hands.
"Easy."
"You're supposed to be in Santa Fe."
"I was."
"What happened?"
Hale laughed without humor.
"The same thing that happened to everyone who got too close."
Mara stepped forward.
"My father sent me."
Hale stared at her.
"Thomas Bell's daughter?"
"Yes."
Hale closed his eyes.
"Then he failed."
"He died."
"I know."
"Did you know him?"
"Yes."
"Did he trust you?"
Hale looked at Maren.
"He trusted too many people."
Mara pulled out the map.
Hale stared.
"Where did you get that?"
"My father."
Hale walked closer.
"This could get you killed."
"People are already trying."
Hale looked at Maren.
"You shouldn't have brought her."
"I know."
"You don't understand."
"Try me."
Hale pointed toward the mountains.
"There is an organization operating in this territory. Ranchers, businessmen, soldiers, judges, lawmen."
"What do they want?"
"Control."