For years, he had believed Voss controlled the county because nobody was strong enough to resist him.
Now he saw something he had forgotten.
Power depended on obedience.
And obedience could end.
Crowe looked toward the photograph in his hand.
Then he made a decision.
"Open the doors."
The deputy stared.
"Sheriff?"
"Open them."
"But Mr. Voss—"
Crowe turned.
"Mr. Voss isn't the sheriff."
The deputy hesitated.
Then nodded.
Crowe placed the photograph inside his coat.
He fastened his gun belt.
And walked toward the front door.
Outside, the crowd waited.
But across town, in the largest house overlooking Silver Creek, Caleb Voss stood beside Edward Ashcroft.
A copy of the newspaper lay on the desk between them.
Voss's face was pale with fury.
"Mercer did this."
Ashcroft examined the page.
"Yes."
"He printed the records."
"Apparently."
"We have to stop them."
Ashcroft looked toward the town.
Lights burned in nearly every window.
The streets were filling.
For the first time in twenty years, he saw something he could not immediately purchase or threaten into silence.
Public anger.
Voss slammed his fist against the desk.
"What do we do?"
Ashcroft folded the newspaper.
His expression remained calm.
"First, we stop the train."
Voss stared.
"The train?"
"The morning train to Denver."
Understanding dawned.
"The documents."
Ashcroft nodded.
"If they reach the territorial authorities, our problems become considerably larger."
Voss swallowed.
"And Mercer?"
Ashcroft looked toward the window.
"He's no longer our greatest concern."
"Then who is?"
The older man pointed toward the courthouse.
"The people."
Voss stared at the gathering crowd.
Ashcroft's voice hardened.
"A frightened town can be controlled."
He picked up his cane.
"An angry town must be broken."
Voss looked uneasy.
"How?"
Ashcroft turned toward him.
"By giving them something more frightening than the truth."
He walked to the door.
"Send Briggs to the railroad bridge."
Voss frowned.
"What for?"
Ashcroft paused.
"By sunrise, I want every rail leading out of Silver Creek under our control."
"And if the train refuses to stop?"
The older man looked back.
"Then make certain it never reaches Denver."
At the same moment, Daniel Mercer was running through the dark alleys behind the general store.
His face was bruised.
His ribs ached.
Blood had dried along his lip.
But he was smiling.
For the first time in five years, he felt that Eleanor's work might not have been in vain.
He rounded the corner near the church.
And nearly collided with Abigail.
She caught his arm.
"Daniel!"
He stopped.
"What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you!"
"You were supposed to go to Margaret Henderson's."
"I did."
"Then you should have stayed there."
Abigail stared at his battered face.
"What happened?"
"Briggs."
Her expression changed.
She reached toward his cheek.
"You're hurt."
"Been worse."
"Stop saying that."
Daniel blinked.
"What?"
"Every time something happens, you say you've been worse. As though being hurt doesn't matter because you've survived worse before."
He stared at her.
Abigail's eyes filled with tears.
"It matters to me."
The words silenced him.
For a moment, the noise of the town faded.
The shouting.
The church bells.
The distant hoofbeats.
Everything seemed far away.
Daniel looked at the woman standing before him.
Her bonnet had slipped.
Strands of dark hair framed her face.
She was exhausted.
Frightened.
Angry.
And more beautiful than he had allowed himself to notice.
"Abigail..."
She stepped closer.
"You keep telling us to trust you."
He nodded.
"Then trust us too."
Daniel looked down.
He had spent years believing that protecting people meant carrying every burden alone.
But Abigail had crossed mountains with him.
Faced gunmen.
Risked her life.
And helped bring the truth into the open.
She was not asking to be protected from the world.
She was asking to stand beside him.
He lifted his hand and gently touched her cheek.
"All right," he whispered.
Abigail closed her eyes briefly.
Then she opened them.
"All right?"
He nodded.
"I trust you."
She smiled through her tears.
"Good."
For one heartbeat, he thought about kissing her.
The thought startled him.
Not because he did not want to.
But because he did.
For five years, he had believed that part of his heart had died with Eleanor.
Now, standing beneath the dark windows of a sleeping town, he felt something he had not expected to feel again.
Hope.
Then a gunshot rang out near the courthouse.
Abigail flinched.
Daniel turned.
Another shot followed.
Then shouting.
He reached for his revolver.
"What now?" Abigail whispered.
Daniel looked toward the courthouse.
"Trouble."
They began running.
But before they reached the main street, a rider emerged from the darkness.
It was Peter Bellamy.
His horse was lathered with sweat.
"Mr. Mercer!"
Daniel stopped.
"What is it?"
Peter nearly fell from the saddle.
"The railroad bridge!"
Daniel felt a chill.
"What about it?"
The boy gasped.
"Briggs and his men are there."
Daniel's expression hardened.
"Doing what?"
Peter swallowed.
"They're planting explosives."
Abigail covered her mouth.
"The morning train..."
Peter nodded.
"It's carrying the mail to Denver."
Daniel looked toward the eastern horizon.
The sky was beginning to pale.
The train would arrive in less than an hour.
He turned to Abigail.
"Find Rachel. Get to the church. Tell Reverend Collins what's happening."
She shook her head.
"Daniel—"
"Please."
She looked at him.
Then nodded.
"What will you do?"
Daniel checked his revolver.
"Stop the train."
Abigail caught his hand.
"Come back."
He looked at her.
For a moment, he saw Eleanor's face.
He remembered all the promises he had made.
All the promises he had failed to keep.
Then he looked at Abigail.
And he understood that this was not the same story.
He was not trying to bring back the dead.
He was trying to protect the living.
"I will," he said.
Abigail squeezed his hand.
Then released it.
Daniel turned toward Peter.
"Can your horse carry two?"
The boy nodded.
"Yes, sir."
Daniel climbed into the saddle behind him.