Raina noticed his expression.
“You know him.”
“I know his kind.”
Outside, the mule brayed at something beyond the corral. Elias rose and took his rifle from the wall. Raina was on her feet before he reached the door, ignoring the pain in her arm.
Across the basin, dust lifted in a long brown ribbon. Riders were coming north, not in a hurry and not trying to hide. Elias counted twelve before the light swallowed the details.
Raina stood beside him.
“Those are not Rook’s men,” she said.
“Friends of yours?”
“No.”
The riders spread across the ridge, silhouettes against the dying sun. At their center rode a broad-shouldered man carrying no visible rifle. He lifted one hand, and the others halted as though a single rein ran through all of them.
Elias felt the old instinct to reach for ammunition, check the windows, and put the house between himself and danger. Instead, he looked at Raina.
“Who are they?”
She swallowed. “People who believe you have something that belongs to them.”
“I have a broken gate, a stubborn mule, and half a sack of beans.”
“They may not be asking for any of those.”
The leader on the ridge raised his hand again, not in greeting but in a signal. The riders behind him moved into a wide arc, closing the northern trail and the road to the well. By the time darkness fell, Elias Mercer’s small ranch was surrounded.
The riders did not attack during the night.
That frightened Elias more than a charge would have. Men who meant to kill often relied on darkness and surprise. These people had chosen the open ridge, where every movement could be seen, and waited without lighting a fire. Their horses stood quietly in the starlight. No one shouted threats. No one fired a warning shot. The silence had purpose.
Elias barred the door and moved the lamp away from the windows. Raina sat at the table, her injured arm resting in a sling he had improvised from a flour sack. She had refused the bed, insisting that she would rather sit where she could see both exits.
“You said they believe I have something,” he said. “What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I know what they were told. I don’t know whether it’s true.”
“That’s a distinction people make when they know more than they want to say.”
“And men make that accusation when they want a stranger to trust them.”
Neither spoke for a while. The clock on the shelf ticked loudly enough to sound like a hammer in an empty room.
At first light, the leader rode down from the ridge alone. He was older than Elias expected, with silver in his dark hair and a face weathered by sun rather than softened by age. A red scarf was tied around his wrist. He stopped beyond the fence and dismounted.
“I am Mateo Aranda,” he called. “I ask to speak with the man who owns this house.”
Elias stepped onto the porch with his rifle lowered but visible.
“I’m Elias Mercer.”
“Did you find a woman beside the southern wash?”
“I found an injured traveler.”
“Is she alive?”
“She is.”
Mateo’s shoulders eased for the smallest instant. Then he looked past Elias toward the house.
“May I speak with her?”
“You may tell me why three hundred people have surrounded my ranch before breakfast.”
Mateo glanced at the ridge. More riders had appeared in the pale morning light, filling the folds of the land until the basin seemed to have grown a second horizon. Elias had never seen so many mounted people gathered in one place. Some were armed with rifles; others carried bows or long knives. A few were women, and several riders were so young they could barely have been older than sixteen.
“They are not here to burn your house,” Mateo said. “They are here because a messenger left our camp with a warning and never arrived.”
“She arrived.”
“Then you have saved her life. For that, I owe you thanks. But she carried a brass cylinder taken from a company office. The cylinder holds a map and a list of names. If it is in your possession, I ask that you return it.”
Elias looked back through the open door. Raina had gone still. She had not mentioned a brass cylinder.
“I don’t have it,” Elias said.
Mateo studied him. “Perhaps the woman does.”
“Then ask her yourself.”
Raina came onto the porch before Elias could stop her. Her face had lost its color, but she held her chin high.
“I have the cylinder,” she said. “I will not give it to you until I know what is written in it.”
A murmur passed along the fence. Mateo did not move.
“You know who is searching for it?”
“Silas Rook’s men.”
“And you know what they will do if they find it?”
“They will kill anyone who can read it.”
Mateo’s expression hardened. “Then you understand why I cannot leave it with you.”
Raina lifted her good hand. “I understand why you want it. I do not yet understand whether you want to protect the names or bury them.”
For the first time, Elias saw anger flash across Mateo’s face. It was not the anger of a man insulted. It was the anger of someone hearing a fear he had carried himself.
“What names?” Elias asked.
Neither answered him.
A horse whinnied near the southern trail. One of Mateo’s riders galloped forward, spoke quickly in his ear, and pointed toward the road. Mateo turned, and the stillness around him changed. Riders began shifting positions. Two moved toward the creek, while another pair rode to the rise behind the barn.
“Company men are coming,” Mateo said. “At least twenty. They have a wagon and a deputy from Mercy Crossing.”
Elias looked at the approaching dust. “Then we should all be very interested in talking.”