"Are you?"
"Very."
"Good."
Caleb laughed.
"Why?"
"Anger is useful if you control it."
Caleb looked at her.
"You sound like my father."
Sani smiled.
"Then your father was occasionally wise."
The women gathered around the table.
Caleb placed the original survey down.
Then the letter.
Awan read the translated version.
His face changed.
"The old Rourke knew."
"Yes."
"And Silas knew."
"Yes."
Awan stared at the letter.
"Then he knew this land was ours."
Caleb nodded.
"That's why this is important."
He pointed toward the signature.
"His own father wrote it."
The camp became silent.
Then Nokan entered.
He was carrying something.
Caleb looked.
A saddle.
June's saddle.
The leather had been cut.
A note was attached.
Caleb removed it.
Only four words.
Come alone tomorrow.
Mara shook her head.
"No."
Caleb folded the note.
"Obviously."
Awan asked:
"What will you do?"
Caleb looked toward the mountains.
"I'll go."
Taza immediately stood.
"We go with you."
Caleb shook his head.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because that's what he expects."
Sani stepped forward.
"Then don't do what he expects."
Caleb looked at her.
"What do you suggest?"
She smiled.
"You have twenty-two witnesses."
Caleb's expression changed.
"You're thinking of going."
"No."
Sani looked toward the others.
"We're all going."
Caleb laughed.
"Rourke asked for me."
Sani shook her head.
"That's his mistake."
By sunset, twenty-two women had prepared horses.
Some had rifles.
Some carried documents.
Some carried nothing.
Caleb looked at them.
"You know this could be dangerous."
Mara answered:
"So was staying silent."
One by one, they mounted.
Twenty-two women.
Twenty-two witnesses.
Twenty-two people who had watched their water disappear.
And twenty-two people who had decided they would not disappear with it.
Caleb looked toward the northern ridge.
For the first time, he smiled.
Rourke thought he had stolen Caleb's horse.
He thought he had separated Caleb from the evidence.
He thought he had created fear.
Instead, he had created a procession.
The group rode north beneath the setting sun.
At the top of the ridge, Rourke's men were waiting.
Silas Rourke stood in front of them.
He looked surprised.
Then angry.
Then uncertain.
Caleb stopped his horse.
Rourke stared at the twenty-two women behind him.
"What is this?"
Caleb smiled.
"You asked me to come alone."
Rourke's jaw tightened.
"I did."
Caleb looked back at the women.
"They disagreed."
Sani raised her cup.
The same wooden cup Mara's son had used when he was sick.
She held it toward Rourke.
"You wanted us to leave."
Her voice carried across the valley.
"But we are still here."
The other women raised their cups.
Twenty-two cups.
Twenty-two witnesses.
Rourke stared at them.
For the first time, Caleb saw something he had never seen in the man's eyes.
Fear.
Not fear of bullets.
Not fear of prison.
Fear of losing control.
And Caleb realized that the real battle had only just begun.
Silas Rourke stared at the twenty-two women standing behind Caleb Mercer.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The wind moved through the dry grass along the ridge, carrying dust between the horses. Somewhere below, the newly discovered spring continued to run through the valley, its water catching the last orange light of the setting sun.
Rourke's men looked uncomfortable.
They had expected one cowboy.
Perhaps two.
They had not expected an entire procession.
Twenty-two women stood behind Caleb with their horses lined almost perfectly along the ridge. Some held rifles. Others carried baskets containing documents and supplies. A few had children riding behind them.
They weren't soldiers.
That was precisely what made the sight so unsettling.
They looked like ordinary people who had finally decided they had nothing left to lose.
Rourke slowly removed his hat.
"Chief Awan."
Awan rode forward.
"Rourke."
"You brought everyone."
Awan's expression remained calm.
"You asked us to leave."
"I offered you a chance to leave."
"There is a difference?"
Rourke smiled.
"A very large one."
Caleb watched him carefully.
He had learned something about Rourke during the past few days.
The man rarely raised his voice.
He didn't need to.
He had spent years surrounding himself with people who raised their voices for him.
Deputies.
Lawyers.
Foremen.
Gunmen.
Officials.
Men who signed papers.
Men who carried messages.
Men who made problems disappear.
Rourke had built an invisible wall around himself.
And Caleb suspected that was why the twenty-two women frightened him.
They represented something money couldn't easily control.
Witnesses.
Rourke looked at Caleb.
"You've made this personal."
Caleb laughed.
"You stole my horse."
"I borrowed it."
"Without asking."
"I intended to return it."
"When?"
"When you learned some manners."
Caleb smiled.
"Then I suppose we're both disappointed."
One of Rourke's gunmen laughed nervously.
Rourke turned toward him.
The man immediately stopped.
Then Rourke looked at the women again.
"Do you know what happens when people challenge men with resources?"
Sani raised her voice.
"Do you know what happens when a man believes resources make him right?"
Rourke's eyes narrowed.
Sani continued.
"People stop fearing him."
The old woman lifted her wooden cup.
"This is why you are angry."
Rourke looked at the cup.
"You think a cup proves something?"
"No."
Sani smiled.
"Twenty-two cups do."
Caleb almost laughed.
Rourke didn't.
He motioned toward one of his men.
The man rode forward.
He carried a leather case.
He opened it.
Inside were several papers.
Rourke took them.
"I have a legal claim."
Caleb answered:
"Not anymore."
Rourke's face changed slightly.
"You stole documents from the county."
"No."
Caleb reached into his coat.
"I copied them."
He held up the original survey.
"The original is still in Dry Creek."
Rourke's lawyer, who had been standing behind him, immediately moved forward.
"That document is disputed."
Caleb looked at him.
"By whom?"
The lawyer hesitated.
"By the county."
"No."
Caleb shook his head.
"By Crowley."
The lawyer said nothing.
Caleb smiled.
"There's a difference."
Rourke dismounted.
He walked toward Caleb.
The two men stood only a few feet apart.
"You think this ends because you found an old survey?"
"No."
"Then what do you think?"
Caleb looked toward the valley.
"I think it ends when everyone knows the truth."
Rourke's eyes hardened.
"Truth?"
He laughed.
"Truth is whatever survives."
Caleb shook his head.
"No."
He pointed toward the women.
"Truth is whatever twenty-two people remember."
Rourke stepped closer.
"You don't understand this country."
"I understand it better than you."
"Do you?"
Rourke gestured toward the mountains.
"This land doesn't care about your principles."
Caleb looked around.
"Maybe not."
Then he pointed toward the spring.
"But people do."
For the first time, Rourke lost his patience.
He slapped the survey out of Caleb's hand.
The paper fell into the dust.
Taza immediately reached for his rifle.
Caleb stopped him.
"Don't."
Taza glared.
"He touched you."
"I know."
Rourke smiled.
"You see?"
He looked at the others.
"This is how quickly peace disappears."
Awan dismounted.
He walked over to the fallen paper.
He picked it up carefully.
Then handed it back to Caleb.
"Peace doesn't disappear because someone knocks down paper."
Caleb looked at him.
Awan continued:
"It disappears when people stop protecting it."
Rourke stared.
Then laughed.
"You people have become very brave."
Mara answered from the line of women.
"No."
Rourke looked at her.
"We have become tired."
That sentence changed the atmosphere.
Caleb had heard it before.
He had heard tired men say it before fights.
He had heard tired women say it before leaving bad marriages.
He had heard tired workers say it before quitting jobs they hated.
Being tired was dangerous.
Because fear could be manipulated.
Exhaustion could be manipulated.
But there came a point when a person simply stopped caring what happened next.
Rourke looked toward Mara.
"You should think about your son."
Mara stiffened.
Caleb's hand moved toward his revolver.
Rourke noticed.
"You see?"
He smiled.
"Threaten one child, and suddenly the cowboy becomes a soldier."
Caleb's voice was quiet.
"Leave her alone."
Rourke laughed.
"I didn't threaten her."
"You did."
"I merely reminded her that children need stability."
Caleb stepped closer.
"If you ever mention that boy again as a threat..."
He stopped.
Rourke smiled.
"What?"
Caleb's eyes were cold.
"You'll find out."
Silence.
Then Awan spoke.
"We came because you called us."
Rourke nodded.
"I did."
"Why?"
"I want the valley."
"No."
Rourke looked surprised.
Awan continued:
"You want what is beneath the valley."
The smile disappeared from Rourke's face.
Awan pointed toward the spring.
"You have known about it for years."
Rourke didn't answer.
"You tried to block it."
Still nothing.
"You tried to make us leave."
Rourke finally spoke.
"You have no idea what is beneath this land."
Caleb stepped forward.
"Then tell us."
Rourke looked at him.
"Why should I?"
"Because if you don't, I'll tell the judge."
"The judge already knows."
"Not everything."
Rourke's eyes narrowed.
Caleb reached into his coat.
He removed the old letter.
The letter from Rourke's father.
He held it up.
Rourke went completely still.
Caleb saw it immediately.
Recognition.
Fear.
Not because of the document itself.
Because of what it meant.
"You know this."
Rourke stared at the paper.
"Where did you get that?"
"The archive."
"You stole it."
"No."
Caleb smiled.
"Your father wrote it."
Rourke stepped forward.
"Give it to me."