"But maybe I can help now."
I considered him for a long moment.
Then asked, "Would you repeat what you heard to a lawful officer who wasn't involved in this?"
He hesitated.
I waited.
Finally, he nodded.
"Yes."
"Even if those men threaten you?"
His face went pale.
Then he nodded again.
"Yes."
I looked toward the eastern hills.
The first sunlight was touching the sandstone formations.
"Then we're going to need somebody with authority who hasn't already sold his badge."
The nearest territorial marshal's office was two days away by ordinary travel.
But a deputy marshal sometimes visited Willow Bend, where the stagehouse physician lived. The old doctor knew him and believed he was trustworthy.
We sent a written message with the baker, who had regular deliveries along the eastern road.
I didn't trust everyone in Cuervo Creek.
But I trusted the baker a little more after watching him stand beside the tree and admit that what had happened was wrong.
He had also offered to carry the message without payment.
Maybe guilt had something to do with it.
I didn't care.
A man can begin doing the right thing for imperfect reasons and still accomplish something worthwhile.
While we waited, I spoke again with the two women.
The older one insisted on sitting at the kitchen table despite her aching ankles. She wanted to see the paper and understand exactly what evidence we had.
The younger woman stayed close beside her.
I spread the copied numbers on the table.
"These initials," I said. "Do either of you recognize them?"
The older woman studied the page.
"One belongs to my husband."
"How do you know?"
"He wrote it on cattle invoices."
She pointed toward the second mark.
"And this one belongs to the other husband."
I nodded.
"What about the numbers?"
She frowned.
"The book had more entries."
"What kind?"
"Feed. Repairs. Freight. Payments."
"Did you recognize any names?"
She thought for a moment.
Then her expression changed.
"There was a word."
"What word?"
She looked toward the younger woman.
They exchanged a few quiet sentences.
Then the older one turned back.
"Transfer."
I leaned forward.
"Written beside the payments?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
The younger woman spoke softly.
"And a place."
I looked toward her.
"What place?"
She closed her eyes.
For several moments, she struggled to remember.
Then she whispered, "Silver Mesa."
The name meant nothing to me.
But the widow, who had been listening from the stove, turned sharply.
"Silver Mesa?"
We looked toward her.
She set down the kettle.
"That's not a town."
I frowned.
"What is it?"
"A private estate."
The widow walked closer.