Clara felt cold despite the warm night.
“And Rand?”
“Works for him.”
“The sheriff?”
“Likely paid.”
Clara looked toward Cal.
“How do you know all this?”
He was quiet again.
Finally, he said:
“Because I used to work for Pruitt.”
The words struck harder than any gunshot.
Clara stood.
Her hand moved toward the rifle leaning beside the door.
Cal did not reach for his weapon.
“You should’ve told me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you would have asked me to leave.”
“Would I?”
Cal looked at her.
“Yes.”
Clara hated that he was right.
“What did you do for him?”
Cal stared at the lantern.
“Things I’m not proud of.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No.”
His voice was low.
“But it’s the honest answer.”
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Cal told her.
Years earlier, he had ridden for Pruitt.
At first, he believed he was protecting property.
Later, he understood the truth.
He was helping powerful men frighten poor ones.
Families were pressured.
Ranchers threatened.
Debts appeared.
Fences burned.
Water rights vanished.
Cal had eventually walked away after a job in New Mexico went wrong.
A family lost their home.
A man died.
Cal had not pulled the trigger.
But he had been there.
Sometimes that was enough.
“Why come here?” Clara asked.
Cal looked toward the spring.
“Because I heard Samuel Whitmore died.”
Her throat tightened.
“And?”
“And I knew Pruitt would come.”
“You came to save me?”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
“I came to see whether you needed saving.”
Clara stared at him.
Cal’s expression softened slightly.
“Turns out you mostly needed someone to hold the other side of the fence.”
Despite herself, Clara laughed.
It was the first time she had laughed in weeks.
The sound disappeared into the darkness.
Then Cal looked serious again.
“We need proof.”
“Of what?”
“Pruitt. Rand. Huck.”
Clara frowned.
“And how do we get it?”
Cal looked toward the old preacher’s house far beyond the eastern ridge.
“Your preacher.”
“Reverend Bell?”
“He saw everything.”
“He won’t talk.”
“He might.”
Clara shook her head.
“He’s afraid.”
Cal stood.
“Then we give him a reason not to be.”
The Law Comes Riding
Three days passed.
No riders appeared.
No threats came.
That silence was worse than the fighting.
Cal slept little.
Mornings found him on the barn roof.
Evenings found him walking the fences.
Clara repaired broken rails.
Checked cattle.
Carried water.
But now every sound mattered.
Every shadow seemed to carry meaning.
On the third morning, Clara saw a rider approaching from the south.
Only one.
“He’s not riding like them,” she said.
Cal stepped beside her.
The rider was traveling hard.
His horse was covered in foam.
A long coat hung from his shoulders despite the heat.
When he lifted his head, Cal’s eyes narrowed.
“Federal.”
The rider dismounted.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper.
“Cal Deveraux?”
Cal did not move.
“Depends who’s asking.”
The man held up a badge.
“Deputy U.S. Marshal.”
He extended his hand.
“Luis Garza.”
Cal took the paper.
Read it once.
Then again.
His expression changed.
“They got the letter.”
Garza nodded.
“Preacher rode himself nearly dead getting it to the nearest telegraph office.”
Clara released a breath.
“Is Reverend Bell alive?”
Garza looked at her.
“He is.”
Cal folded the paper.
“What’s the situation?”
“Warrants are being prepared.”
“For Pruitt?”
“For Rand.”
Garza paused.
“Sheriff Huck.”
He looked toward the ranch.
“And anyone close enough to make it stick.”
Clara stepped forward.
“Prove it.”
Garza looked at her.
“Your preacher gave a statement.”
“What else?”
“Documents.”
Cal’s eyes narrowed.