A man's purpose was.
He fired again.
A gunman dropped.
Ayana fired from the doorway.
Her revolver cracked sharply.
Coyle moved with surprising speed.
He drew his own pistol and fired three times.
"Left ridge!" he shouted.
Silas turned.
Two men were climbing toward the cabin from the west.
He fired.
One fell backward.
The second disappeared behind the rocks.
Then Nantan appeared above them.
The chief moved with the speed of a much younger man.
His rifle cracked.
The gunman vanished.
Silas stared.
For one instant, the two men looked at each other.
Twelve years of hatred.
Twelve years of guilt.
Twelve years of silence.
And now they were fighting on the same side.
Nantan nodded once.
Silas nodded back.
Then the chief disappeared into the rocks.
The battle lasted less than ten minutes.
But to Silas, it felt like an entire lifetime.
When the last gunshot faded, smoke drifted above the valley.
Two Apache warriors descended from the ridge.
They dragged a wounded man between them.
The man's coat was soaked with blood.
His face was gray.
Nantan approached.
Silas followed.
The prisoner looked up.
His eyes found Silas.
Then widened.
"You."
Silas stopped.
The man's lips moved.
"Carter."
Silas crouched.
"Who sent you?"
The man coughed.
"No."
"Who?"
The prisoner laughed weakly.
"You really don't know."
Silas felt the old dread returning.
"Know what?"
The man looked toward Coyle.
Then Nantan.
Then Ayana.
"Mercer wasn't the one who ordered Red Willow."
Coyle's expression hardened.
"Who was?"
The prisoner smiled.
"Marshal."
Coyle froze.
Silas looked at him.
The wounded man continued.
"Not Edwin."
His smile became cruel.
"The other one."
Coyle's face drained of color.
"Who?"
The prisoner whispered a name.
A name Silas had never heard.
But Coyle had.
Silas knew because the marshal's expression changed.
It was not surprise.
It was recognition.
Fear.
"Say it again," Silas demanded.
The man coughed blood.
"Judge Elias Vane."
Coyle stepped backward.
Silas looked at him.
"Who is Judge Vane?"
Coyle did not answer.
Nantan watched him closely.
Ayana raised her revolver.
"Tell us."
Coyle finally spoke.
"He's the man who signed the land transfer."
Silas frowned.
"What land transfer?"
Coyle looked toward Red Willow Valley.
"The one that transferred the valley out of Apache jurisdiction."
Silas's heart sank.
"When?"
"The day before the massacre."
Silas stared at him.
"That's impossible."
Coyle shook his head.
"No."
He pointed toward the eastern cliffs.
"It happened before a single shot was fired."
Silas felt the pieces of his past rearranging themselves.
The massacre had never been the beginning.
It had been the final step.
The land had already been claimed on paper.
All Mercer had needed to do was make the dead unable to challenge the claim.
Silas looked at Nantan.
The chief's face had gone completely still.
"Where is this judge now?"
Coyle looked toward the horizon.
"Santa Fe."
Silas tightened his grip on the Winchester.
"And what does he want?"
Coyle answered quietly.
"The same thing he wanted twelve years ago."
"Red Willow."
"No."
The marshal looked directly at Silas.
"He wants what is beneath Red Willow."
Silas felt the old valley closing around him.
The river.
The caves.
The underground water.
The survey markers.
The hidden tunnel.
And something else.
Something he had not yet remembered.
A document.
A witness.
A piece of evidence that Mercer had failed to destroy.
Silas suddenly remembered the night he fled.
He had been bleeding.
He had taken a saddlebag.
He had ridden south.
And inside that bag had been a small leather notebook.
He had kept it for years.
Never opened it.
Never understood why he had taken it.
He had buried it beneath the floorboards of his old cabin.
Then, years later, when he moved to Red Willow, he had brought the bag with him.
Silas looked at his cabin.
The floorboards.
His eyes widened.
Coyle noticed.
"What is it?"
Silas didn't answer.
He walked toward the door.
Ayana followed.
"What did you remember?"
Silas stopped at the threshold.
"I have something."
"What?"
"A notebook."
Coyle stepped forward.
"Whose?"
Silas turned.
"Mercer's."
The marshal's expression changed.
"Where?"
"Under the floor."
Coyle grabbed his arm.
"Then we need to get it."
Silas looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because if that notebook contains what I think it does, it may prove everything."
Nantan came closer.
"Then take us to it."
Silas entered the cabin.
The familiar room suddenly felt strange.
He crossed toward the fireplace.
There was a loose board beneath the table.
He knelt.
His fingers found the edge.
He pulled.
The board lifted.
Beneath it was darkness.
And an old leather satchel.
Silas reached down.
His hand touched the strap.
Then he stopped.
There was blood on it.
Fresh blood.
Silas slowly looked up.
The cabin door was open.
Ayana was standing there.
Coyle was behind her.
Nantan was outside.
Everyone was accounted for.
Then who had touched the bag?
Silas pulled it from the hole.
A small knife dropped from beneath it.
It struck the floorboards with a metallic click.
Ayana stared.
"That wasn't there before."
Silas knew she was right.
The knife was unfamiliar.
Its blade was narrow.
Its handle was wrapped in black leather.
Coyle crouched.
He studied it.
Then his face changed.
"What?"
Silas asked.
Coyle didn't answer.
He turned the knife over.
There was a symbol carved into the handle.
A small circle divided by three lines.
Silas had seen it before.
Not on a weapon.
On a document.
On the corner of one of Mercer's orders.
He looked at Coyle.
"What does it mean?"
Coyle's voice was barely audible.
"It means we're not alone."
A floorboard creaked behind them.
Silas spun.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
Then the window shattered.
Ayana screamed.
A bullet tore through the wall.
Silas grabbed her and pulled her down.
Coyle rolled behind the table.
Nantan shouted from outside.
Gunfire erupted again.
But this time the shots were different.
Closer.
More controlled.
Not the wild firing of hired men.
These shooters knew exactly where everyone was.
Silas crawled toward the shattered window.
He looked through the opening.
On the far ridge, a man stood watching the cabin.
He was too far away to see clearly.
But Silas knew the posture.
The stillness.
The confidence.
The man lifted one hand.
Then pointed directly at the cabin.
Another rifle fired.
The bullet struck the satchel in Silas's hands.
Leather exploded.
Papers flew across the floor.
Silas stared.
One page landed in front of him.
His eyes caught the writing.
A date.
Twelve years earlier.