The daughter dismounted.
She began laughing.
Not quietly.
The frontiersman stared at her.
“What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“You nearly lost your hat.”
“Men were shooting.”
“You caught it.”
“It is a good hat.”
She laughed harder.
The frontiersman found himself smiling.
Then she looked at him.
The laughter faded.
For the first time they stood together without suspicion between them.
Not all of it.
But enough had fallen away to reveal something underneath.
The daughter became aware of how close they were.
So did he.
Neither moved.
Then a rifle fired in the distance.
The moment vanished.
The daughter mounted again.
“We need to warn the camp.”
The frontiersman nodded.
“And the fort.”
She looked at him sharply.
“You want soldiers?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because the ranch owner is counting on them hearing only his story.”
The daughter's expression darkened.
“And you think they will believe yours?”
“No.”
He mounted.
“But I know somebody they might.”
Chapter Seven — The Marshal Without a Badge
The man the frontiersman trusted lived in a mining settlement east of the Verde.
He had once worn a territorial marshal's badge.
Now he repaired wagon wheels, drank too much coffee, and preferred horses to people.
When the frontiersman entered his workshop, the older man stared at him for a long time.
“Thought you were dead.”
“So did I.”
“Disappointed?”
“Some mornings.”
The former marshal looked past him and saw the chief's daughter.
His humor disappeared.
“What trouble did you bring?”
“The kind you used to get paid for.”
“I retired.”
“Then don't charge me.”
They told him everything.
The traps.
The branded saddle.
The weapons.
The plan to burn the line shack.
The staged arrow.
The approaching patrol.
The former marshal listened without interrupting.
When the frontiersman finished, the older man leaned against the workbench.
“You got proof?”
“Not enough.”
“Then you got a story.”
The daughter spoke.
“We heard him.”
“A court won't care.”
“I care.”
The former marshal met her eyes.
“I believe you do.”
He looked at the frontiersman.
“The ranch owner has friends in Prescott.”
“I know.”
“Army captain too.”
“I know.”
“You asking me to ride into that ranch and arrest twenty men on the word of two people?”
“Four.”
“Two Apache witnesses won't help with a territorial judge.”
The daughter stiffened.
The former marshal raised a hand.
“I didn't say that was right. I said that is what will happen.”
The frontiersman paced.
“What would be enough?”
“Ledgers.”
“What?”
“Men like him pay everybody. Hired guns. Officials. Freight agents. They write it down because rich criminals are usually more afraid of losing money than hanging.”
The frontiersman remembered the ranch house.