“Where are the original records?” Ethan asked.
Rudd spat into the fire.
“Courthouse.”
“In Black River?”
“Old records room.”
“Who knows they’re there?”
“Harlan.”
Nita looked at Ethan.
“We need the records.”
“Yes.”
“And this man’s testimony.”
Rudd laughed.
“You think I’ll testify?”
Ethan looked at him.
“No.”
The thief frowned.
“Then why keep me alive?”
“Because men like Harlan always think fear works forever.”
Ethan leaned closer.
“But fear changes direction.”
Black River appeared at noon on the third day.
The town was larger than Red Creek.
Two streets of stores.
A bank.
A courthouse.
Three saloons.
A railway station.
And Harlan’s cattle office occupying the largest building in town.
Ethan stopped at the edge.
“From here on, nobody uses a weapon unless necessary.”
Sewa frowned.
“They stole our horses.”
“I know.”
“They may steal our valley.”
“I know.”
“So why protect them?”
Ethan looked at her.
“We’re not protecting them.”
“We’re protecting the truth.”
They entered town.
People stared at Nita, Sewa, and Araya.
Some openly hostile.
Others curious.
Ethan ignored them.
The courthouse clerk refused to let them inspect the records.
“Closed.”
“It’s noon,” Ethan said.
“Records office is closed.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Ethan smiled.
“Who told you to say so?”
The clerk became pale.
That was enough.
Nita whispered:
“Harlan knows we are here.”
“Probably knew before we reached the first building.”
Ethan looked out the window.
Two riders were watching them.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Men become careless when they think they control the board.”
That night, they rented one room at a boarding house.
Mason Rudd remained tied to a chair.
At midnight, Ethan heard footsteps outside.
He woke Nita.
“Visitors.”
The door burst open.
Three men entered.
Ethan struck the first with the chair.
Nita disarmed the second.
Sewa kicked the third in the knee.
Araya stood in the corner holding a shotgun.
“Very brave men,” she said. “Four people sleeping and you still needed three guns.”
The attackers fled.
One left something behind.
A brass badge.
Deputy sheriff.
Nita picked it up.
“So Harlan owns the law.”
Ethan nodded.
“Then tomorrow we find someone he doesn’t own.”
“Who?”
Ethan looked toward the railway tracks.
“The newspaper.”
THE WOMAN WITH THE PRINTING PRESS
Her name was Eleanor Vale.
She was forty-one years old, widowed, stubborn, and apparently afraid of absolutely nothing.
The Black River Gazette occupied a narrow building between a bakery and a saddle shop.
Eleanor listened as Ethan explained the story.
She read the eviction notice.
Then she interviewed Rudd.
When he refused to speak, she leaned toward him.
“Mr. Rudd, I have printed stories about killers, thieves, cattle barons, crooked judges, and one preacher who ran away with his own church donations.”
Rudd stared at her.
“I don’t scare easy.”
He swallowed.
Eleanor smiled.
“Now tell me about Rufus Harlan.”
An hour later, Rudd was talking.
Not because he had become brave.
Because Eleanor promised to publish his name as the only surviving member of Harlan’s gang willing to tell the truth.
Cowards sometimes enjoyed the idea of becoming important.
By noon, Eleanor had written enough for three front pages.
But Ethan wanted the original land records.
Eleanor agreed.
“Judge Cole keeps them in the courthouse basement.”
“How do you know?” Nita asked.
“I’m a newspaper editor.”
Eleanor shrugged.
“Knowing where people hide things is half my job.”
At sunset, they entered the courthouse through a coal delivery door.
Ethan hated breaking laws.
But he hated forged laws more.
They found the records room.
Dust.
Shelves.
Old deeds.
Survey maps.
Treaties.
Then Araya found it.
A leather folder.
Inside was a territorial agreement signed nineteen years earlier.
The northern valley had been officially recognized for Apache use.
It contradicted Harlan’s deed completely.
Nita touched the old document carefully.
“This saves us.”
Ethan frowned.
“Maybe.”
“You said proof mattered.”
“It does.”
“But?”
“We have to survive long enough to show it to somebody.”
Footsteps sounded upstairs.
Too many.
Ethan extinguished the lantern.
A voice called from the stairwell.
“Graves!”
Rufus Harlan.
Ethan’s expression hardened.
Harlan descended with Sheriff Carver and six armed men.
“You’ve made a nuisance of yourself,” Harlan said.
Ethan stepped into view.
“Been told that before.”
Harlan looked at Nita.
“Your people should have left when warned.”
Nita held the original record.
“This valley is ours.”
Harlan smiled.
“Paper can burn.”
Ethan looked at the lantern.
“So can cattle offices.”
Harlan’s smile disappeared.
He understood the threat.
Not that Ethan would burn anything.
That Ethan knew Harlan’s entire empire depended on documents too.
The sheriff raised his gun.
“Hand over the folder.”
Eleanor Vale appeared behind them.
“No.”
Everyone turned.
She stood at the top of the stairs with a pistol in one hand and a camera in the other.
Behind her were six townspeople.
Then ten.
Then more.
Eleanor smiled.
“I invited witnesses.”
Harlan’s expression darkened.
“You stupid woman.”
“Careful.”
She lifted the camera.
“I’ve heard insults better than that.”
People filled the courthouse entrance.
A blacksmith.
Two ranchers.
A teacher.
The baker.
Railway workers.
Harlan suddenly realized that secrecy had ended.
Eleanor raised her voice.
“Mr. Graves, would you show everyone the document?”
Ethan handed it to Nita.
She stepped forward.
“This agreement says the northern valley belongs to my people.”
Murmurs spread through the room.
Eleanor held up Harlan’s forged deed.
“And this document says otherwise.”
She looked at Judge Cole, who had quietly entered behind the crowd.
The judge froze.
Eleanor smiled.
“Judge, would you like to explain why the signature on Mr. Harlan’s deed was dated three years before the land survey it references?”
Silence.