Tucker rested his hands on the horn of his saddle, looking down at Caleb with a patronizing smirk that failed to reach his eyes. His gaze slid quickly to Clara, lingering on her dark braids, her copper skin, and the silver medallion resting against her chest. A foul, dismissive sneer curled his lip.
“Morning, Morgan,” Tucker said, spitting a stream of brown tobacco into the dust near Barnaby’s hooves. “Looks like the morning train brought you more than you bargained for. Didn't know the state of Texas was issuing marriage licenses for redskins these days.”
Caleb felt a hot spike of fury surge through his ribs, but his exterior remained cold as iron. His fingers brushed the leather hammer-thong of his revolver, flicking it free. “You’re on private ground, Tucker. State your business, or turn those animals around and ride back to town before you get yourself unhorsed.”
Vance’s hand twitched toward the scabbard of his Winchester, but Caleb’s eyes locked onto him with such murderous clarity that the gunman froze, his fingers hovering an inch above the walnut stock.
Tucker cleared his throat, his smirk faltering slightly under Caleb’s glare. “Keep your shirt on, Caleb. We’re here on official county business. Mr. Vale sent word through the commissioner's office. There’s been an adjustment to the tax assessments on the basin properties. Due to the drought and the drop in county livestock head counts, the minimum property valuation has been raised.”
“My taxes were paid in full through November,” Caleb said, his voice flat and dangerous. “I have the stamped receipt from the county clerk sitting in my desk inside.”
“That was under the old assessment,” Tucker replied smoothly, pulling a folded legal notice from his coat pocket. “Under the new emergency levy, your backlog comes to two hundred and forty dollars in gold coin. Payable within forty-eight hours, or the sheriff’s office is authorized to put the Morgan parcels up for public auction on the courthouse steps.”
Two hundred and forty dollars in gold might as well have been ten thousand. After the catastrophic winter, Caleb had barely thirty dollars in paper notes stashed inside a tobacco tin under his floorboards. It was a blatant, manufactured squeeze—a classic land-grab designed to choke him out without firing a shot.
“Vale owns the commissioners,” Caleb said through gritted teeth. “This is theft.”
“It’s the law, Morgan,” Tucker said with a shrug that set Caleb’s blood boiling. “Course, Mr. Vale is a charitable man. He knows your situation. He authorized me to tell you that he’d be willing to take the deed off your hands today for five hundred dollars cash. You take the money, take your new... companion here, and catch the outbound stage for California. Better than getting thrown into the ditch with nothing.”
Clara stepped forward before Caleb could speak. Her movement was so swift, so fluid, that both riders instinctively pulled back on their reins.
She looked directly at Deputy Tucker, her obsidian eyes boring into his skull. “The Morgan land patent is held under an undivided sovereign title granted by the state legislature in eighteen sixty-five. Under Section Four of the Texas Homestead Protection Act, an agricultural patent cannot be encumbered or forced to auction for county ad valorem surcharges during a declared regional livestock emergency.”
The silence that followed was so complete that the hiss of the cottonwood leaves sounded deafening.
Tucker’s jaw slackened. He blinked stupidly at the woman, his mind utterly incapable of processing legal doctrine coming from an Apache woman standing in the dirt of a desolate ranch yard. “What the hell are you babbling about?”
“I am telling you that your paper is worthless,” Clara said, her voice ringing with the clarity of a judge reading a death warrant. “And I am telling you that if Gideon Vale wants this basin, he will have to show his face instead of sending two cowardly curs to bark on his behalf.”
Jack Vance’s face darkened with savage fury. He snarled, his hand plunging toward his revolver. “You insolent squaw—”
The click of Caleb’s Colt was the loudest sound in the valley.
In a blur of motion that defied his broad frame, Caleb’s gun was out of its leather and leveled dead center at Vance’s breastbone. The hammer was drawn back to full cock, resting on a hair trigger. Barnaby pinned his ears flat, sensing the lethal change in the air.
“Finish that motion, Vance,” Caleb whispered, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Finish it, and your saddle will be empty before your boots hit the dirt.”
Vance remained frozen, his fingers curled like claws above his gun grip, sweat suddenly beading across his forehead. He knew men who drew fast, but he had never seen a working cowman clear leather with that kind of cold, predatory speed.
Tucker turned pale, raising both hands placatingly. “Easy, Caleb! Easy, now! We’re officers of the county!”
“You’re a trespasser on Morgan land,” Caleb said, never taking his eyes off Vance. “Get off my property. Tell Gideon Vale that if he wants two hundred and forty dollars, he can come ride down here and collect it himself. And tell him that the Morgan Ranch isn't selling—not today, not next month, not until the devil comes to claim his soul.”
Tucker hauled his horse around with an awkward jerk of the bit. “You’re making a grave mistake, Morgan! Forty-eight hours! The law won’t wait for you!”
“Ride,” Caleb commanded.
Vance slowly lifted his hand away from his hip. He stared at Caleb with venomous hatred, spat into the dirt, and turned his gelding. The two men spurred their horses into a frantic gallop, racing back toward the southern road until the cloud of red dust swallowed them completely.