Jonah walked out from the blacksmith shed, carrying his heavy leather apron in his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled to the shoulder, his forearms black with charcoal soot.
“You’ve come forty miles off the stage road, Mr. Bradley,” Jonah said, stopping ten feet from the attorney. “If you’re here to serve an appeal, you’re in the wrong jurisdiction. The circuit clerk in Tucson informed me that no stay of execution was granted.”
“I am not here on a matter of litigation, Mr. Reed,” Bradley said smoothly, turning his polished smile toward Jonah. “The court has spoken; the territorial docket is clear. I am here as a private representative of Mr. Elias Hutchins to propose an equitable, private settlement that will prevent further unpleasantness for all parties concerned.”
Jonah gestured toward the open kitchen door with the toe of his boot. “The sun is hot on the gravel. Say your piece inside.”
They entered the cool, whitewashed kitchen. Tala walked to the side of the table and remained standing, her back against the cupboard shelves where the spice tins sat in a row. Jonah sat down at the end of the pine trestle, resting his sooty hands upon his thighs. Bradley sat down opposite him, placed his leather portfolio on the clean wood, and unbuckled the brass clasp.
From the portfolio, the attorney drew out a thick, legal-sized envelope of heavy bond paper, tied with green ribbon, and laid it squarely in the center of the pine table.
Beside it, he placed a canvas bag that gave off a heavy, muffled chink as it struck the wood—the unmistakable sound of gold coin.
“Mr. Reed, Miss Tala,” Bradley began, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table in his most persuasive courtroom manner. “We are all practical people of the territory. The hearing in Tucson was... dramatic. It established certain legal points. But you both know, as well as I do, that a legal victory in a territorial court does not guarantee domestic peace in an isolated county.”
He tapped the canvas bag with his index finger.
“In this sack,” Bradley said, “are five hundred dollars in double eagles—United States gold, minted in San Francisco. And in this envelope is a formal release of all claims, signed by Mr. Hutchins, accompanied by a quitclaim deed to forty acres of school section land situated on the upper Gila, containing an excellent stone house and water rights to the primary ditch.”
Tala’s eyes did not move toward the gold. They remained fixed on Bradley’s pale, smooth forehead.
“And what does Elias Hutchins want for five hundred dollars in gold and forty acres of water land?” she asked, her voice cold and dry.
Bradley smiled, spreading his hands in an expansive gesture of pure reasonableness.
“A very simple thing, Miss Tala. A very small thing. Mr. Hutchins is a candidate for the territorial council in the upcoming fall elections. His reputation as an honorable merchant and public servant is being maliciously attacked by certain political factions in Tucson, who are using the transcript of the recent hearing to paint him as a... well, as a man who operates outside the law.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper.
“We ask only for a signed retraction. A brief, notarized statement certifying that the transaction at Black Mesa was a misunderstanding arising from an erroneous military voucher; that Mr. Hutchins treated you with every consideration during your stay in his household; and that Mr. Reed’s payment was an amicable settlement of an existing account rather than an intervention against an unlawful sale.”
He opened the envelope, took out a sheet of paper covered in elegant, copperplate handwriting, and pushed it toward her, accompanied by a small, gold-mounted fountain pen.
“Sign this document, Miss Tala,” Bradley murmured. “Take the gold. Take the deed to the Gila land. You can return to your people’s valley with enough wealth to buy three herds of cattle and live as an independent landholder for the rest of your days. Mr. Hutchins gets his seat on the council, you get your valley, and the old gossip is buried under six feet of clean paper.”
The room was completely still. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic creak of the windmill turning in the morning breeze and the buzz of a single horsefly against the windowpane.
Jonah did not look at Tala. He sat like an iron statue, his grey eyes fixed on the wood grain between his elbows. He did not speak a word; he did not lift a finger to accept or refuse the offer. He left the space entirely empty, as he had always done, waiting for her sovereign voice to fill it.
Tala walked slowly to the table.