The homesteader nodded.
“Good.”
The owner lowered her voice.
“The merchant is nervous.”
“So am I.”
“Different nervous.”
The homesteader looked through the window toward the store.
“Why does he care?”
The owner hesitated.
“I think you should ask yourself why he cares about your debt at all.”
“He likes money.”
“He has plenty.”
“He likes other people needing it.”
“True.”
The owner sat.
“But your debt is fifty-six dollars.”
“And?”
“He rode four miles to watch milk arrive.”
The homesteader became still.
The owner continued.
“I owe him two hundred eighty.”
“He has never once visited my kitchen to remind me.”
The homesteader thought of the dry south fence.
The low creek.
The land.
“What do you know?”
the homesteader asked.
The boarding-house owner looked away.
“Nothing certain.”
“Then tell me the uncertain part.”
That made the older woman smile.
“You’re learning.”
She lowered her voice.
“A survey man stayed here last month.”
“Railroad?”
“Yes.”
“He drinks.”
“Useful.”
“Sometimes.”
“What did he say?”
“The proposed freight spur may turn east after Alderton.”
The homesteader pictured the valley.
“East crosses the Bellweather pasture.”
“No.”
The owner looked at her.
“Too steep.”
Silence.
The homesteader’s heartbeat slowed.
“What does it cross?”
The boarding-house owner said:
“Your southern forty.”
The room seemed to narrow.
The homesteader said nothing.
The woman continued.
“Not confirmed.”
“But possible.”
“Yes.”
“How much would a right-of-way pay?”
“Depends.”
“How much?”
“More than fifty-six dollars.”
The homesteader understood.
The merchant did not need to own her claim now.
He needed her gone before the railroad formalized its route.
An abandoned homestead claim could be contested.
Refiled.
Purchased through another claimant.
Controlled indirectly.
If she defaulted badly enough that her livestock, wagon, tools, or seed were seized, continuing residence could become impossible.
He did not need to take the federal land with a debt note.
He needed to make her abandon it.
The boarding-house owner watched realization arrive.
“You think I’m right.”
“I think I need proof.”
“Good.”
The homesteader stood.
“Where is the survey man?”
“Cheyenne.”
“When back?”
“Maybe next week.”
The debt came due before then.
The homesteader looked toward her basket of cash.
Nine days.
She picked it up.
“Then I pay before I know.”
The owner nodded.
“Yes.”
That was simpler.
Harder.
Cleaner.