The boy shook his head.
"That's not the worst of it."
Daniel felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
"What is?"
Peter's eyes filled with tears.
"They burned your ranch."
The room went silent.
Daniel stared at him.
"What?"
"The barn. The house. Everything."
Abigail covered her mouth.
Rachel whispered, "No."
Peter looked down.
"I'm sorry."
Daniel stood motionless.
For a moment, he saw his kitchen.
The wooden table.
The iron stove.
Eleanor's photograph on the mantel.
The garden she had once dreamed of planting.
The house he had built with his own hands.
Then he imagined it burning.
All of it.
Gone.
Martha stepped toward him.
"Daniel."
He did not answer.
Peter continued quietly.
"And Mr. Mercer..."
Daniel looked up.
The boy hesitated.
"What?"
"They took your horses."
Daniel closed his eyes.
Midnight.
Willow.
Copper.
The gentle gray mare Lucy had ridden.
The animals he had raised and trained.
Gone.
Rachel looked furious.
"Those monsters."
Abigail approached Daniel.
She wanted to touch his arm.
To say something.
Anything.
But there were no words large enough for what he had lost.
Daniel opened his eyes.
His expression was strangely calm.
Too calm.
"Who ordered it?"
Peter swallowed.
"Caleb Voss."
Daniel nodded.
"And the sheriff?"
"He was there."
Martha whispered, "Nathaniel..."
Peter looked at her.
"He tried to stop them."
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"The sheriff told Briggs not to burn the house. Said there was no reason."
"And Briggs?"
Peter looked away.
"He said he had orders from someone higher."
Daniel stared at him.
"Ashcroft."
Peter nodded uncertainly.
"I don't know the name. But Briggs said the order came from the man who owned Voss."
Daniel looked toward the dark valley.
For five years, he had tried to build a life beyond violence.
He had repaired fences.
Raised horses.
Planted crops.
Watched seasons pass.
He had convinced himself that peace was possible if he stayed far enough away from men like Ashcroft.
Now his home was ash.
His horses were stolen.
And the people responsible were preparing to destroy anyone who stood against them.
Abigail touched his arm.
"Daniel."
He turned.
Her eyes were wet.
"I'm so sorry."
He looked at her.
Then at Rachel.
Then at Lucy.
And finally at Martha.
His voice was quiet.
"Nobody else loses a home because of these men."
Rachel stepped forward.
"What are you going to do?"
Daniel looked toward the mountains.
"Something I should have done five years ago."
He turned to Martha.
"Do you still have Joseph's old printing press?"
Martha blinked.
"The hand press?"
"Yes."
"It's in the shed."
"Does it work?"
"With enough patience."
Daniel nodded.
"Good."
Abigail frowned.
"What are you thinking?"
He lifted the wooden box from the table.
"We've been running because Ashcroft has the money, the guns, and the law."
Rachel crossed her arms.
"He still does."
Daniel looked at the documents.
"But we have something he doesn't."
"What?"
"The truth."
He turned toward the door.
"And I think it's time the entire county heard it."
CHAPTER NINE: THE NIGHT SILVER CREEK BEGAN TO WAKE
Silver Creek had once been a hopeful town.
When the first settlers arrived, they found a narrow river winding through a fertile valley, surrounded by rolling hills and distant mountains.
There was timber in the north.
Grazing land in the south.
Gold in the mountains.
And enough open country that a hardworking family could imagine building a future.
The first buildings were little more than rough wooden shacks.
Then came a general store.
A blacksmith.
A church.
A schoolhouse.
A bank.
By the time the railroad reached the valley, Silver Creek had grown into a proper town with nearly eight hundred residents.
For a while, prosperity seemed certain.
Then Caleb Voss arrived.
He purchased the freight depot.
Then the grain warehouse.
Then the bank.
Soon he controlled the prices farmers received for their crops, the loans ranchers needed to survive winter, and the shipping contracts that determined whether a business succeeded or failed.
People who cooperated with him prospered.
People who resisted struggled.
Some lost everything.
Others disappeared.
And gradually, Silver Creek became a town where people lowered their voices whenever Caleb Voss entered a room.
On the evening Daniel Mercer's ranch burned, the town gathered beneath the courthouse clock.
A notice had been nailed to the wooden board outside the sheriff's office.
WANTED
DANIEL MERCER
FOR THE MURDER OF DEPUTY SAMUEL PRICE
REWARD: $500
Beside it hung another notice.
ABIGAIL WHITMORE, RACHEL WHITMORE, LUCINDA WHITMORE
WANTED FOR THEFT OF COUNTY RECORDS AND CONSPIRACY
People stopped to read.
Some shook their heads.
Others whispered.
Most walked away quickly.
But one man remained.
His name was Benjamin Carter.
He was fifty-six years old, with a thick gray beard and a limp that had troubled him since the war.
For twenty years, he had operated the town's printing shop.
He had published birth announcements, advertisements, election notices, and the occasional editorial criticizing the condition of the roads.
He had once dreamed of publishing a newspaper that told the truth.
Then Voss purchased the building.
And the dream became dangerous.
Benjamin stared at the wanted poster.
He had known Samuel Price since the boy was twelve.
He had known Daniel Mercer for four years.
And he had known Caleb Voss long enough to understand that the official version of events rarely resembled the truth.
A voice spoke beside him.
"You don't believe it either."
Benjamin turned.
A woman stood near the courthouse steps.
She was tall and thin, with dark hair streaked with gray and a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
Mrs. Margaret Henderson.
The widow whose farm had been seized eight years earlier.
Benjamin frowned.
"Believe what?"
"That Daniel Mercer killed Samuel Price."
Benjamin glanced around.
"Careful, Margaret."
She gave a bitter smile.
"I'm tired of being careful."
He looked at her.
Something in her expression unsettled him.
"What happened?"
She stepped closer.
"Two men came to my boardinghouse this afternoon."
"Who?"
"Briggs's men."
Benjamin's stomach tightened.
"What did they want?"
"They asked whether Thomas Whitmore had ever spoken to me about my husband's land."
Benjamin stared at her.
"And?"
"I told them he had."
Margaret's voice trembled.
"They searched my room. Took every letter Thomas ever sent me."
Benjamin looked toward the sheriff's office.
"Why?"
"Because those letters prove Voss stole our farm."
Benjamin felt cold.
"Margaret..."
She lifted her chin.
"They threatened to arrest me if I spoke about it."