“Company owns freight office.”
“Clerk doesn’t.”
“How know?”
“He helped your brother.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Another person he never told me.”
“Yes.”
She glared.
“After this is over, I’m going to resurrect him just to slap him.”
The cowboy almost smiled.
Then winced.
“Reasonable.”
They opened iron box.
Sorted.
One letter addressed to federal land office.
Another to a territorial judge.
Copies of signatures.
The woman recognized deputy’s name.
Cattle baron’s attorney.
Banker.
Foreman.
At bottom, a small notebook in her brother’s writing.
He had documented meetings.
Dates.
Threats.
The last entry was three days before his death.
Foreman knows. Cowboy says leave tonight. I can’t yet. Need original spring survey. If I don’t come home, tell my sister none of this was her fault.
The woman closed notebook.
The cowboy looked away.
“You told him to leave.”
“Yes.”
“He stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wanted original survey from land office.”
“He said without it, company could call copies false.”
“And then?”
The cowboy’s jaw tightened.
“He went alone.”
“Why weren’t you with him?”
“He lied to me.”
“He said he was meeting informant in town.”
“He rode toward canyon.”
“I found tracks too late.”
The woman watched.
The cowboy’s voice lowered.
“I heard the shot.”
“I reached him before he died.”
“Did he say anything?”
The woman’s hands trembled.
The cowboy looked at her.
“He said your name.”
“What else?”
“‘Don’t let her turn this into another thing she has to carry.’”
The woman closed eyes.
“He knew me.”
“Yes.”
“He knew you better than he let on.”
She cried quietly.
The cowboy did not touch.
That mattered.
He let grief belong to her.
When she finally wiped her face, he said:
“We need decide.”
She looked at papers.
“Town.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
“But if we stay, they come here.”
“Yes.”
“And if we burn papers?”
He looked sharply.
“I’m asking.”
“If you want, we burn.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“You spent two years.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
“Not more than you.”
She looked at him.
He continued.
“Your brother said choice.”
“If you want life without this, I destroy everything and tell them evidence is gone.”
“They might still come.”
“Maybe.”
“But less reason.”
The woman looked at iron box.
Then at family land outside.
At letter.
At brother’s handwriting.
“No.”
The cowboy waited.
“I’m tired of men deciding what I should know because they’re protecting me.”
He accepted.
“Then town.”
They left near dusk.
The cowboy rode her old gelding because it had smoother gait.
She rode spare mule after mare returned? Her mare had gone down trail; perhaps returned later. Let's say the mare returned near sunset, foaming but unharmed. Good.
They wrapped evidence under flour sack.