Chapter 28 - The Hall of Records
The Territorial Land Office in Prescott was housed in a two-story limestone building on the corner of Gurley Street, smelling of old paper, pipe tobacco, and floor wax. Outside, teamsters yelled at their oxen and blue-coated soldiers from Fort Whipple strolled between the saloons, completely oblivious to the war that had been fought across forty miles of malpais to bring this single book to their doorstep.
Secretary Sumners was an old man with wire-rimmed spectacles and ink-stained cuffs, sitting behind a massive oak counter beneath a portrait of President Grant. When Caleb stepped through the heavy wooden door, his spurs chiming against the floorboards, Sumners didn't look up from his ledgers.
"Office is closed for inventory, Captain," Sumners droned. "Come back after the evening retreat."
Caleb stepped to the counter, reached inside his Confederate coat, and slammed the heavy iron key onto the oak wood with a crack like a pistol shot.
"Inventory can wait, Horace," Caleb said.
Sumners froze. Slowly, his rheumy eyes rose from the papers, taking in the jagged scars on Caleb’s face, the gray coat, and the brass-hilted saber at his waist. The old bureaucrat turned pale as lard.
"Caleb?" Sumners stammered, rising so quickly his chair squeaked across the floor. "You're... Morrison said you took a bullet in Sonora three years ago."
"Morrison says a great many things," Caleb drawled. "Jesse, put the book on the counter."
I stepped forward, my boots tracking dried red clay onto the polished wood. Zora stood directly behind me, her eyes sweeping the room, her hand hidden beneath the wool blanket draped over her shoulder. I laid the cracked leather ledger down.
Sumners looked at the book as if it were a coiled rattlesnake. "Is that...?"
"Ten years of Morrison’s private notes," I said, my voice hoarse and raw. "The real surveys of the Verde basin. The ones that prove every deed Morrison sold to the eastern syndicates was forged over Apache treaty boundaries. Silas Finch’s certified chain marks are inside."
Sumners touched the cracked leather with trembling fingers. "If this is authentic... it voids half the land titles in Yavapai County. Morrison’s empire... it’s all paper. He has no legal right to the water. None of it."
"We know," Caleb interrupted sharply. "Sign the certificate of impoundment, Sumners. And open the inner gate to the depository."
Sumners hesitated, his eyes darting between Caleb and the iron key on the desk. "The depository? But Caleb... the territorial judges aren't in session. The federal garrison commander must witness any opening of the inner vault."
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"The garrison commander is drinking whiskey across the street at the Diana Saloon," Caleb said softly, leaning over the counter until his face was inches from Sumners's nose. "And if you don't unlock that iron gate within ten seconds, Horace, I will pin you to that oak wall with this saber and take the keys from your pocket."
***
