He pointed toward the broken jaw.
“Choice.”
The frontiersman stared at him.
Then slowly nodded.
He tied the piece to his saddle.
On the ride back, the warrior suddenly asked, “When marry sister?”
The frontiersman nearly fell off his horse.
The warrior laughed so hard he had to stop riding.
Chapter Fourteen — What Justice Looked Like
News arrived in February.
The ranch owner had been indicted.
Not for everything.
No law could reconstruct all the harm.
But charges included conspiracy, theft of government weapons, bribery, property destruction, attempted murder, and fraud.
The former sergeant agreed to testify in exchange for leniency.
Several territorial officials resigned.
The survey through the valley was suspended indefinitely.
The chief listened as the former marshal read the letter aloud.
When it ended, nobody celebrated.
The daughter noticed the frontiersman's confusion.
“You expected cheering?”
“Maybe.”
She looked toward the mountains.
“Paper does not bring dead people home.”
“No.”
“It does not heal my brother's leg.”
“No.”
“It does not erase the traps.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“But perhaps fewer traps come.”
“Yes.”
“That is enough for today.”
The frontiersman nodded.
Later, the former marshal pulled him aside.
“There is another hearing.”
“For what?”
“Tonto Basin.”
The stranger stopped.
The marshal handed him a paper.
“Territorial inquiry.”
The frontiersman did not open it.
“They want testimony.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Spring.”
The daughter approached.
She saw the paper.
“What?”
The frontiersman handed it to her.
She read slowly.
Then looked at him.
“You go.”
It sounded like an order.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“No running.”
He almost smiled.
“No running.”
Spring arrived gradually.
Snow retreated from the lower valleys.
Creeks swelled.
Grass appeared beneath the trees.
When the frontiersman departed for the inquiry, the daughter rode with him.
So did her aunt.
The hearing took place in a packed room above a territorial office.
Ranchers attended.
Soldiers.
Reporters.
Government officials.
Families of militia men.
Apache witnesses.
The atmosphere felt like dry grass waiting for a spark.
The frontiersman was called first.
He stood.
Raised his hand.
Swore to tell the truth.
And did.
All of it.
He described the contract.
The route.
The captain's orders.
The civilians.
The gunfire.
His own failure.
The woman and child he helped escape.
The ranch owner's presence.
The money.
At one point an attorney asked, “Did you personally kill anyone that day?”
“No.”
“Then why do you repeatedly describe yourself as responsible?”
The frontiersman looked toward the daughter.
Then at her aunt.
“Because a man can help evil without pulling the trigger.”
The room became silent.
The attorney tried again.
“You left the militia.”
“After the shooting started.”