Chapter 24 - The Road to Prescott
The military road narrowed as we climbed into the Bradshaw foothills, carving through dense thickets of scrub oak and ponderosa pine. Caleb rode thirty paces ahead, his Confederate coat billowing behind him like a ragged banner of defeat. He never looked back, but his shoulders were rigid, his ears tuned to every hoofbeat behind him.
I rode knee-to-knee with Zora. Her face was turned toward the timber, her jaw set like granite.
"Zora," I murmured, keeping my voice beneath the clatter of the gravel. "He didn't contact me. I swear on the blood of my mother. I thought he was bones in the red clay."
"He has your eyes, Jesse," she said, not looking at me. "He has the same voice you used when you told me Morrison would pay for what he did to my brothers. When you spoke in the cottonwoods, were those your words? Or his?"
"They were mine," I said, my chest aching so sharply I could hardly breathe. "Morrison stole everything I had. He stole my youth, he worked me like a mule, and he made a desert out of this whole county. But I will not let Caleb finish Morrison’s work. You have to believe me."
Zora turned her head slowly. The morning light caught the jagged line of an old scar across her collarbone—a reminder of the soldiers who had cleared her village ten years ago.
"A wolf does not care whose teeth tear the sheep," she whispered. "Morrison or your brother. To my people, the teeth are the same."
From behind us, Silas pushed his mule forward until his knee brushed my stirrup. The old surveyor’s single good eye was wide with an unease that had nothing to do with Caleb’s saber.
"Jesse," Silas rasped softly, leaning toward me under the pretense of adjusting his cinch. "Caleb lied to you."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "About what?"
"About the vault," Silas said, his hand trembling as he gripped his horn. "The territorial vault in Prescott doesn't require two keys. It was built by the federal quartermaster in sixty-five. It only takes one brass spindle. The second lock... is on the territorial arsenal in the fort’s basement."
I stared at the old man, my blood turning to liquid lead.
"The arsenal?"
"Caleb doesn't want Morrison’s land deeds to settle the valley," Silas whispered, his voice trembling with sheer terror. "He’s been running guns to the southern border guerrillas for three years. He wants the federal Springfield rifles locked in Fort Whipple's basement. Morrison's ledger isn't his prize—it’s his bribe to the territorial marshal to look the other way while his men loot the armory."
May you like
Before I could answer, the sharp, hollow crack of a rifle shot echoed from the granite cliffs above the road. Caleb’s horse reared, screaming, as a plume of dust exploded between its hooves.
***
