He dismounted and knelt beside the first timber. A fresh saw cut crossed the underside of the beam. Someone had packed the wound with mud to disguise the bright wood. Beyond it, two bolts had been loosened until their nuts could be turned with a thumb.
“Not weather,” Elias said.
Mara looked downstream, where the current struck a shelf of black rock. The drop was not great, but a wagon entering the water at the wrong angle would roll. Yesterday Ruth had planned to bring three pupils across the bridge to help copy the survey maps. Mara felt her stomach tighten.
“Who knows we're traveling to Silver Junction?” she asked.
“Enough people to make a list useless.”
They had been carrying the evidence to a clerk who had promised to certify the copies before Crowe's assessment hearing. In Mara's satchel lay the rainfall tables, Samuel's field notes, and Tomas's ledger. The originals remained hidden at the widow's house, but losing the copies would cost days they did not have.
A wagon rattled along the eastern road. Harlan Voss sat on the bench beside his oldest daughter, who held a basket of eggs beneath a blanket. Mara stepped into the road and raised both arms. Harlan hauled his horses to a stop. When Elias showed him the beam, he went white beneath his beard.
“Ruth's school cart came this way yesterday,” he said. “My girl was on it.”
The child stared at the bridge. “Will it fall?”
“Yes,” Mara answered. “But not under you.”
They unloaded Harlan's wagon and sent his daughter back toward the nearest farmhouse with instructions to warn everyone. Harlan stayed to help. He owned a length of chain and knew a logging trail that led to a shallow crossing a mile north. It would add half a day to their journey. He offered the information reluctantly, as though generosity might be another debt he could not afford.
“Crowe's men use that trail,” he warned. “I saw Pike riding there two nights ago.”
Elias examined the far bank. A dark patch among the willow stems was not shadow but disturbed earth. He crossed upstream on foot and returned with a piece of canvas wrapped around a small tin. Inside lay a packet of matches, a coil of fuse, and a folded receipt bearing the stamp of Crowe's quarry. Someone had intended to do more than weaken the bridge.
“Take that to the sheriff,” Harlan said, then gave a bitter laugh. “The sheriff. Listen to me.”
Mara slipped the receipt into her pocket. “We'll take it to someone who can read it aloud in court.”
They left a warning sign nailed to the bridge rail and rode toward the logging trail. The sun climbed, but the woods remained cold. Twice Elias paused to listen. On the third pause, Mara heard what he had heard: a horse moving behind them, its hoofbeats deliberately slow.
“Don't look back,” he said. “The bend ahead gives us cover.”
They rode around a stand of pines and turned sharply into an abandoned charcoal pit. A rider passed on the road, wearing a broad hat and a gray coat. Mara recognized the horse, a black gelding that had stood outside Crowe's office the afternoon he offered to purchase her rights. The rider did not see them. He rode toward the bridge and disappeared.
Harlan exhaled. “We could turn home.”
“And then?” Mara asked. “Wait for the next broken bridge?”
At the northern crossing they found the water deeper than Harlan remembered. The season's early storms had swollen the creek. Elias tested the bed with a long pole, marking a route around the larger stones. Harlan took his wagon through first, his horses straining while water rose to their knees. Mara followed on horseback, holding the satchel high. Halfway across, a rock shifted beneath her mount. The animal stumbled, and the satchel slid from her grip.
She caught the strap with two fingers. The weight jerked her sideways. For an instant she saw the current opening beneath her, carrying the pages downstream like white leaves. Elias rode alongside, seized the strap, and hauled it over his saddle horn. His mare braced against the water, trembling but steady.
On the opposite bank Mara laughed once, not from amusement but relief. Harlan shook his head. “If papers are worth that much, they must be dangerous.”
“They're dangerous to the right man,” she said.
By dusk the three reached Silver Junction. The county clerk's office was dark, its door barred, but a lamp burned in the adjoining print shop. Ada Bell, who ran the telegraph desk and printed notices for the town, admitted them through the back. She listened without interrupting while Mara described the bridge. Then she examined the quarry receipt under her lamp.
“This stamp isn't used on ordinary sales,” Ada said. “It's a labor requisition. Someone charged the fuse to the county road contract.”
“Can you prove it?” Mara asked.
“I can prove the form is genuine. Whether the charge was authorized is another matter.”