Chapter 8 - Turning the Tables
By the fourth day south of Prescott, the landscape had flattened into a vast, sun-bleached desert punctuated by giant saguaro cacti and jagged mountain ranges shimmering in the distance. The heat was relentless, baking the moisture right out of their canteens and turning the trail into a punishing test of endurance.
They reached the outskirts of a small mining settlement called Oracle late in the afternoon. It was a rough collection of unpainted shacks, a noisy saloon, and a general store whose porch was crowded with dusty prospectors and out-of-work skinners.
Instead of heading straight for the saloon where information usually lived, Cole led Dusty toward the back of the general store, tying the horses near a water trough.
“Why here?” Ayana asked, swinging down from the bay with a tired sigh, her muscles aching from hours in the saddle.
“Because men like Silas Crow don't hide in hotel rooms; they drink in saloons,” Cole said, checking the cinch on his saddle. “And men who work for men like Crow spend their paychecks on whiskey and talk too much when they’ve had three glasses of bad corn liquor. You stay here with the horses. Keep out of sight.”
“I am not hiding behind a water trough while you go poking around a miners’ camp,” Ayana retorted, unbuckling her rifle scabbard.
“I didn't say hide. I said keep out of sight,” Cole said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “If someone spots an armed Apache woman walking into an Oracle saloon looking for Crow’s men, every gun in town will clear its holster before you reach the swinging doors. Let me do the talking. I look like a wandering cowboy who lost his way from Texas. Nobody pays attention to a dusty cowboy.”
Ayana glared at him, her jaw tight. She hated being sidelined, hated the unwritten rules of frontier towns that made her presence a provocation. But she also knew he was right.
“You have twenty minutes,” she said coldly. “If you aren't back, I’m walking through those doors with my knife drawn and every window smashed.”
“Fair enough,” Cole smiled faintly, turning toward the noisy clapboard building across the dusty street.
The interior of the Miner’s Rest smelled of stale beer, unwashed wool, and burning kerosene. Half a dozen men sat around wooden tables playing poker, while the bartender polished glasses behind a scarred pine counter.
Cole walked up to the bar, tossed a silver coin onto the wood, and ordered a glass of whiskey. He kept his hat pulled low, his eyes scanning the room in the dim light.
Near the back corner, two men in trail-stained canvas vests were talking in low tones over a map spread across a barrel head. One of them had a distinct jagged scar running from his ear down to his collar—a man Cole remembered seeing among Crow’s riders near the canyon ridge.
Cole picked up his glass, strolled casually toward their table, and leaned against a nearby support post, sipping the burning liquor as if he had nowhere else to be.
“...Judge Miller’s place is down near the San Pedro,” the scarred man was whispering to his companion. “Old man thinks he’s safe out there growing olives and oranges. But Crow’s got papers saying the whole valley reverts back if the title isn't contested in person by the original claimants.”
“And if the claimants don't show up?” his companion chuckled.
“Then Crow files the default judgment next Monday in Tucson, and the whole bunch gets tossed out on their ears.”
Cole’s hand tightened around his glass. He had found what he needed.
May you like
Without making a sound, he set his glass down, turned on his heel, and walked out of the saloon into the blinding afternoon sun, leaving the two hirelings none the wiser.
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