"What did you say?"
"I told them to go to hell."
Benjamin closed his eyes.
"Lord preserve us."
Margaret looked at the wanted poster.
"Thomas Whitmore was murdered. Samuel Price was murdered. And now they're trying to kill those girls."
Benjamin said nothing.
She turned toward him.
"How many more people have to die before somebody tells the truth?"
The question stayed with him long after she walked away.
That night, Benjamin returned to his printing shop and locked the door.
He sat beside the cold press.
On the wall hung a faded photograph of his wife, Rebecca.
She had died six years earlier.
Before her death, she had begged him to stop printing Voss's lies.
He had promised he would.
Then the debts came.
Then the threats.
And he had remained silent.
Benjamin looked at her photograph.
"I'm getting old, Becky," he whispered.
The room was quiet.
He sighed.
"And I think I've been a coward."
A knock sounded at the back door.
Benjamin stiffened.
Nobody visited his shop after dark.
He reached beneath the counter and removed an old revolver.
"Who's there?"
A woman's voice answered.
"Someone who knew Thomas Whitmore."
Benjamin froze.
He approached the door.
"Who?"
"Abigail Whitmore."
He stared at the wood.
Then he slowly lifted the latch.
Abigail stood in the alley.
Her dress was torn.
Her hair was pinned beneath a plain bonnet.
Beside her stood Rachel, wearing a man's coat several sizes too large.
Daniel Mercer waited behind them.
Benjamin nearly dropped the revolver.
"Good Lord."
Daniel stepped forward.
"Evening, Ben."
Benjamin stared.
"You're supposed to be dead."
"Not yet."
"There's a reward on your head!"
"I heard."
"And your ranch—"
"I heard that too."
Benjamin looked toward the street.
"Are you insane coming here?"
Daniel glanced at Abigail.
"Probably."
Rachel sighed.
"That's becoming a common problem."
Benjamin hurried them inside.
He locked the door.
Then he turned toward Daniel.
"What do you want?"
Daniel placed a bundle of papers on the counter.
"To print something."
Benjamin stared.
"Print?"
"Yes."
"Daniel, the entire sheriff's department is looking for you!"
"Then we'd better work quickly."
Benjamin looked at the documents.
He unfolded the first page.
His eyes moved across the writing.
Then widened.
"Where did you get this?"
"Thomas Whitmore."
Benjamin looked at Abigail.
"Your father?"
She nodded.
"He spent years collecting evidence."
Benjamin turned another page.
A forged land deed.
A bank transfer.
A signed letter from a territorial official.
He read the names.
Then he read them again.
His hands began to tremble.
"This..."
He looked at Daniel.
"This could destroy Voss."
Daniel nodded.
"That's the idea."
Benjamin shook his head.
"No. You don't understand."
He pointed to a name on the second page.
"Judge Bell."
Daniel nodded.
"And Sheriff Crowe."
"Yes."
"And the railroad commissioner."
"Yes."
Benjamin looked horrified.
"These men control everything."
"Not everything."
"What don't they control?"
Daniel looked toward the printing press.
"You."
Benjamin stared at him.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then the old printer looked toward his wife's photograph.
He remembered her voice.
Ben, a newspaper that never tells the truth is just paper.
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
"How many copies?"
Daniel smiled faintly.
"As many as you can make."
Benjamin drew a deep breath.
"Then we'd better get started."
For the next four hours, the printing shop became the center of a quiet rebellion.
Benjamin set the type by hand.
Abigail sorted documents.
Rachel operated the press.
Daniel cut paper and carried stacks of finished sheets to the drying racks.
The room filled with the smell of ink and oil.
The press creaked.
Metal type clicked.
Paper rustled.
And slowly, page after page, the truth began taking shape.
The headline was simple.
THE LAND THEY STOLE
Beneath it appeared a list of families whose properties had been seized through fraudulent loans and forged deeds.
The article described the Blackstone mining disaster.
The corruption of county officials.
The suspicious death of Thomas Whitmore.
And the murder of Deputy Samuel Price.
Benjamin insisted on careful wording.
"We print what we can prove," he said. "Not what we merely suspect."
Daniel nodded.
"Agreed."
Abigail handed him another document.
"This one has the judge's signature."
Benjamin examined it.
"Then we print it."
Rachel looked toward the window.
"How much longer?"
"An hour," Benjamin said.
"We don't have an hour."
Daniel looked up.
"Why?"
Rachel pointed toward the street.
Two riders had stopped outside the sheriff's office.
One wore a long black coat.
The other had a red beard.
Wade Briggs.
Daniel's expression hardened.
"Put out the lamps."
Benjamin obeyed.
The printing shop fell into darkness.
Through the window, they watched Briggs dismount.
He spoke briefly to the sheriff's deputy.
Then he pointed toward the printing shop.
Rachel whispered, "He knows."
Daniel looked at the stacks of papers.
"How many copies?"
Benjamin counted quickly.
"Two hundred and forty."
"Enough."
Abigail frowned.
"For what?"
Daniel lifted a stack.
"To start."
He turned to Rachel.
"There's a back alley behind the church. Take fifty copies to Reverend Collins."
Rachel nodded.
"Abigail, take fifty to Margaret Henderson."
She looked surprised.
"You know her?"
"Ben told me where she lives."
Daniel turned to Benjamin.
"Can you get the rest to the railroad depot?"
Benjamin hesitated.
"The depot belongs to Voss."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because the morning train carries mail to Denver."
Benjamin's eyes widened.
Daniel nodded.
"If these documents reach the territorial capital, Voss can't bury them here."
Benjamin smiled slowly.
"You're right."
A heavy knock sounded at the front door.
Everyone froze.
"Open up!"
Briggs.
Daniel moved toward the back.
"Go."
Rachel grabbed the papers.
Abigail followed.
Benjamin lifted a canvas mailbag.
Daniel waited until they had disappeared into the alley.
Then he turned toward the front door.
Another knock.