Harlon traced the route.
“This water doesn't stop flowing in winter. The spring comes out of the rock warm enough to keep the upper channel open through the coldest months.”
Amily looked toward the map.
“And Blackstone wants it?”
“Blackstone wants control of the intake and the land needed to build a diversion.”
He paused.
“Silas Vale intends to build a private flume feeding his new ore-processing works.”
Amily frowned.
“Would that hurt the town?”
Harlon looked directly at her.
“If he takes too much flow from the upper channel, the families below could lose the water they depend on, especially during dry years.”
Her stomach tightened.
She remembered the stagecoach passing small farms along the valley.
Cabins.
Fences.
Livestock.
Children standing beside the road.
“And he can do that?”
“Not lawfully without the appropriate rights and permissions.”
Harlon placed one finger on the map.
“That's where the old deeds matter.”
He explained that decades earlier, two neighboring families, the Wards and the Boones, held land along the upper passage controlling the most practical route for a large diversion structure.
Their rights were recorded separately, with specific reservations and obligations concerning existing access to the creek.
When the mining industry expanded, Blackstone acquired several neighboring parcels.
But it did not acquire everything it later claimed.
According to Harlon's father, the company altered old survey descriptions and relied on disputed releases to assert authority over the upper channel.
The resulting paperwork was complicated enough that many residents simply assumed the company owned what it said it owned.
Harlon opened the oldest leather notebook.
“My father surveyed the original boundaries.”
Amily examined the pages.
The handwriting was precise.
Distances.
Bearings.
Dates.
Measurements.
And detailed observations of old markers that had since disappeared beneath roads and mining works.
She looked toward a name written beside an original property description.
Amos Ward.
Her breath caught.
“My grandfather's name was Amos.”
Harlon looked toward her.
“Your mother's father?”
Amily nodded.
“Yes.”
He turned another page.
There was a letter copied into the survey notes.
It referenced a family named Ward who had moved east after a dispute involving the land.
The letter was signed by Clara Ward.
Amily stared.
She recognized the handwriting.
Not perfectly.
The ink was old.
The letters carefully formed.