Stairs.
Caleb looked at wood and blamed wood.
She whispered:
“Thank you.”
He smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Later that same day Jasper’s second secret reached them by telegraph.
The Cimarron marshal had questioned him.
Amos Jenkins had not merely approved duplicate food invoices.
He had instructed Jasper to falsify cattle losses, short crew provisions, and deduct nonexistent “trail expenses” from wages at Dodge.
Jasper kept twenty percent.
Jenkins kept rest.
Caleb read telegram twice.
His face drained.
He had worked for Jenkins nine years.
Henrietta found him behind wagon at dusk.
He sat alone.
She lowered herself beside him carefully.
He handed telegram.
“I trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“I defended him.”
“Yes.”
“I told men shortages were hard season.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“You could say I was fool.”
“You were.”
He almost laughed.
Then she continued.
“So was I for taking job.”
“So were men who believed invoices.”
“Being deceived is not same as being stupid.”
Caleb stared.
Henrietta had not planned sentence.
It came from somewhere she needed too.
He looked at telegram.
“What do I do?”
“You finish drive.”
“He owns cattle.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“You make copies.”
“Send one to stockyard.”
“One to cattle buyer.”
“One marshal.”
“One bank holding sale proceeds.”
Caleb looked.
“You’ve thought.”
“I’ve been cooking for thieves five weeks.”
He laughed despite himself.
Henrietta continued:
“And you tell crew now.”
“Not at Dodge.”
“Now.”
“Why?”
“Because their wages are target.”
“They deserve information before choosing whether ride into his yard.”
Caleb nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
That evening he told them.
No one left.
Saul said:
“We finish for cattle.”
Mason:
“And our money.”
Levi:
“And Hedi hasn’t used last goat.”
Henrietta threw a biscuit at him.
The final stretch into Dodge carried a different feeling.
They were no longer simply driving cattle.
They were carrying evidence.
Every invoice copied.
Every head counted independently by three men.
Every food purchase signed by Henrietta and a witness.
Every wage day recorded.
Caleb became almost obsessive.
Henrietta teased:
“You may yet become respectable accountant.”
“I’d rather die.”
At Dodge City stockyards, Amos Jenkins waited.
He wore a clean suit and broad hat.
He had not ridden one mile with them.
His first words:
“You’re late.”
Caleb dismounted.
“Storm.”
Jenkins looked over herd.
“How many lost?”
“Five total.”
Jenkins frowned.
“Only five?”
Henrietta, standing beside wagon, watched his disappointment.
There.
Caleb saw too.
Jenkins’s eyes moved toward Henrietta.
His face changed.
“You still here?”
Henrietta smiled.
“Disappointing?”
He looked at goats.