Chapter 3 - The Cold Truth of the Ridge
The night air outside the burning settlement was bitterly cold, the kind of high-desert chill that cut straight through woolen shirts and soaked skin. Panting, Cole and Tomas pressed themselves against the rough cedar planking of the livery stable’s exterior wall, listening to the frantic shouts of Vance’s men back at the ruined office.
"They think we're still inside the collapse," Tomas whispered, clutching his side as he caught his breath. His face was streaked with soot, and his hands shook uncontrollably. "Look at the flames, Captain. Everything we had... gone."
"It's wood and mud, Tomas. We have the ledgers," Cole replied quietly, patting the bulging leather satchel slung securely across his chest.
"And where do we take them?" Tomas's voice cracked with sudden, bitter despair. "Vance owns the circuit judge. He owns the sheriff in Silver City. If we ride into town with those papers, we won't make it past the town pump before some bought-and-paid-for deputy puts a bullet in our backs for resisting arrest."
Cole stared out toward the dark, jagged silhouette of the Black Range rising against the starlit sky. Tomas was right about the valley authorities. Marcus Vance had spent five years weaving a web of financial and political control that stretched from the Mexican border all the way up to the territorial capital. A lone man with a leather bag of old financial records was nothing against a machine oiled by cattle money and political ambition.
"We aren't going to Silver City," Cole said flatly.
Tomas blinked in the darkness. "Then where? There's nothing out in those hills except abandoned mines, rough terrain, and Apache war parties who won't take kindly to white men trespassing on their seasonal trails."
"We're going to Red Creek Canyon," Cole said.
Tomas recoiled as if struck. "Red Creek? Are you out of your mind? That's Victorio’s old stomping ground. The military patrols shoot anything that moves up there, and the bands who stayed behind don't talk to cattlemen—they kill them."
"They don't kill people who bring proof of who burned their winter encampments," Cole said, his voice hard as iron. "Remember the second ledger entry you showed me? The one detailing the irregular militia pay funded under the false name of the 'Territorial Defense League'? The band led by Gray Horse didn't burn those ranches on their own accord last spring. They were framed by Vance’s men to justify the military clearing action."
Tomas stared at him in the dim starlight, the weight of the realization settling over the old clerk like a physical burden. "You think you can make a deal with them?"
May you like
"I think," Cole said, checking the chambers of his revolver and clicking the cylinder back into place with a crisp snap, "that the only people in this territory who hate Marcus Vance more than I do are the ones he tried to exterminate to steal their water rights. If we give them the names of the men who signed the eradication orders, we might just find ourselves some unexpected allies."
Before Tomas could argue further, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from the lower trail. A pair of riders was breaking away from the burning office, heading directly toward the livery stables with lanterns swinging from their saddle horns. Time had run out.
