"Unrest?!" Ethan took half a step forward, his boot heel slamming into the pine floorboards. "There wasn't a shot fired near the Devil's Ribs until Vance brought thirty hired border ruffians and parked a brass Gatling gun right at the entrance of Cañada del Oro! His men have been blasting the limestone bluffs, poisoning the headwaters of the creek with tailing runoff, and driving off stock! The Chiricahuas didn't start this fight, Captain. Vance started it so he could provoke a raid, yell 'Indian massacre' to the Prescott newspapers, and have your cavalry clear the valley so he could take thirty million dollars in silver veins!"
"That's wild speculation!" Vance barked desperately, leaning forward on his knuckles. "Baylor, that canyon holds the richest horn silver deposit north of the Sonora line! It belongs to the citizens of the United States, not a band of roaming savages! I have thirty miners down there who are American citizens, entitled to the protection of the flag!"
Baylor picked up the small, leather-bound ledger and held it before Vance’s nose.
"And how much did American citizenship cost you, Mr. Vance?" Baylor asked softly. "Ten thousand dollars in stock to Judge Miller? Five thousand dollars in direct gold deposits to Governor Safford's private account in San Francisco? And look here... entry number eighty-eight. 'To Lieutenant Colonel Bradley, Department of the Pacific, ten shares of Syndicate stock for expediting military transport.' Is that how the law operates in Prescott, sir?"
Vance’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. He tried to muster his former bluster, but the hard facts recorded in his own accountant’s ink crushed his defenses. "Those are business transactions, Baylor! Legitimate development investments! You don't understand territorial politics! If you interfere with this claim, your military career is finished! I have friends in the Senate Naval and Military Affairs Committee who can have your bars stripped before your next leave!"
Captain Marcus Baylor rose from his chair.
He was not a tall man, but he stood with the rigid, unyielding bearing of a soldier who had survived four years of slaughter in the Shenandoah and the Wilderness. He stepped out from behind the desk until he was standing twelve inches from Vance’s face.
"Mr. Vance," Baylor whispered, his gray eyes burning with an arctic rage, "I spent four years watching boys from Massachusetts and Ohio die in Virginia mud to defend the authority of the United States government. I did not bury my comrades in shallow graves so that corrupt carpetbaggers and frontier land-thieves could use the uniform of the United States Cavalry as private muscle for an illegal mining syndicate."
Baylor reached down, unhooked the brass whistle from his tunic lapel, and blew a single, piercing note.
The door flew open instantly. Corporal Miller and three armed privates entered the office, their Springfield rifles lowered.
"Corporal," Baylor ordered, his voice ringing through the headquarters. "Disarm Mr. Vance. Place him in the post guardhouse under close arrest. He is charged with subornation of public officials, conspiracy to commit fraud against the United States, and attempted misuse of federal military assets."
"What?!" Vance shrieked, struggling as two burly troopers seized his arms, stripping an ivory-handled derringer from his waistcoat pocket. "Baylor, you're out of your mind! You can't arrest a civilian officer of the territory!"
"I can hold any civilian on a federal military reservation during an active state of military preparedness," Baylor replied coldly. "Corporal, if he raises his voice again, gag him. And place an armed guard over his horse and luggage. Every scrap of paper in his saddlebags is evidence."
The troopers hauled the sputtering syndicate boss out of the office, his curses dying away down the wooden veranda as he was dragged across the dusty parade ground toward the guardhouse.
Ethan let out a long, ragged breath, feeling the crushing weight of exhaustion settle into his bones. His legs felt like lead, and his vision swam slightly from thirty-six hours of unceasing tension.
Baylor watched him, his expression softening by a fraction of an inch. The captain reached into the desk drawer, pulled out a crystal decanter of amber bourbon and two small glasses, and poured three fingers into each. He pushed one glass toward Ethan.
"Drink that, Mr. Walker," Baylor said. "You look like you’ve been dragged through ten miles of cactus."
Ethan picked up the glass and swallowed the whiskey in a single gulp. The liquor was smooth, burning with the rich flavor of aged oak, cutting through the bitter taste of trail dust and alkali that had coated his tongue since yesterday.
"Captain," Ethan said, setting the empty glass down, "arresting Vance here doesn't solve the problem in the canyon."