Two years earlier, he had investigated a land-fraud scheme farther east. He already recognized several names in the stolen ledger.
He closed the door behind him.
“You the cowboy?”
The wounded man looked down at himself.
“Currently more blanket than cowboy.”
The marshal ignored the joke.
He set the case down.
“You willing to testify?”
“Yes.”
“Against the foreman?”
“Yes.”
“Against the company officers if evidence leads there?”
“Yes.”
The marshal looked toward the woman.
“And you?”
She stood beside the window with her arms folded.
“If what I found on my land matters, yes.”
“It matters.”
The marshal opened the iron box they had recovered from the mountain.
Survey copies.
Payment lists.
The dead brother’s notebook.
Letters.
The marshal touched nothing without gloves.
The woman appreciated that.
Not because she cared about procedure.
Because those papers had been hidden by her brother.
Handled by him.
Written by him.
She had not expected strangers to become evidence custodians of the last pieces of his life.
The marshal asked:
“Who else knows you found this?”
“The foreman.”
“How certain?”
“He aimed a gun at me.”
“Fairly certain.”
The cowboy shifted.
The woman shot him a look.
He stopped.
The marshal continued:
“The company will move fast now.”
“Burn records.”
“Pressure witnesses.”
“Move livestock.”
“Transfer land.”
The woman looked at him.
“So what happens to my cabin?”
“Nothing if they’re smart.”
“And if they’re not?”
The marshal hesitated.
The cowboy answered instead.
“They may try to destroy what they think remains there.”
The woman’s face changed.
Her cabin.
Her parents had built the first room.
Her brother had added the lean-to.
Her mother had sewn curtains for the east window.
The marks of her father’s crutch were still visible near the hearth where he had slipped one winter and cursed loudly enough to make everyone laugh.
The house was not valuable in the way railroad companies valued land.
It was valuable because memory had taken physical form there.
The marshal said:
“I’ll send two men.”
She immediately shook her head.
“I’m going back.”
The cowboy tried to sit straighter.
“No.”
The woman turned slowly.
“What?”
“You heard marshal.”
“I also heard that it’s my home.”
The cowboy’s jaw tightened.
“Exactly why you don’t walk into an ambush.”
She stared.
“You do not get to decide this.”
“I know.”
“You sounded like you did.”
“I’m asking.”
“No.”
His mouth opened.
She raised a hand.
“I spent two years having men hide things from me because they thought danger entitled them to decide what I knew.”
“You are not becoming another.”
The cowboy closed his mouth.
The marshal looked between them.
A faint expression suggested he would rather face armed cattle thieves.
The cowboy finally said:
“You’re right.”
The woman blinked.
That came too quickly.
“You’re agreeing?”
“Yes.”
“Entirely?”
“No.”
“There.”
He took a breath.
“I think going back tonight is dangerous.”
“Good.”
“But I’m not telling you you can’t.”
“Better.”
“I’m asking you to take armed company.”