“You said they surrounded your north pasture.”
“They did.”
Elena corrected:
“Your north pasture surrounds the old trail.”
Vane glared.
Price said:
“I’m going to see Black Mesa.”
Vane smiled coldly.
“You should think carefully about that.”
Price stared.
Samuel watched the moment happen.
Not courage arriving.
Fear changing direction.
The deputy had been afraid of Vane’s anger.
Now he was afraid of what ignoring the dam might mean if territorial authorities learned he had been warned.
Self-interest could occasionally perform useful work.
Price said:
“I’ll see it.”
Vane turned his horse.
“This is not finished.”
Samuel looked toward his house.
“No.”
He nodded.
“I think it finally started.”
Vane rode away.
His men followed.
The deputy remained.
By evening, Price had seen the dam.
By sunset, he had become very quiet.
“I need to report this.”
Samuel nodded.
“To the sheriff?”
Price looked embarrassed.
“That’s procedure.”
“Sheriff drinks with Vane every Friday.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
Price looked toward Elena’s uncle.
“Territorial water office.”
Samuel was impressed.
“Look at you.”
“Don’t.”
Price rubbed his face.
“This could ruin people.”
Samuel looked toward his dead pasture.
“It already did.”
The next morning, Samuel rode to Santa Cruz with Elena.
The church records existed.
Barely.
Dusty boxes.
Mouse-chewed paper.
Baptism records.
Marriage records.
Burial records.
A retired priest named Father Miguel Alvarez had kept correspondence no one thought valuable enough to discard.
Inside one envelope:
Miriam Hale.
Samuel recognized the handwriting immediately.
He sat on the floor of the church archive.
Elena beside him.
Miriam’s letter described the Black Mesa diversion.
Attached was a copy of her father’s 1859 survey map showing the original watercourse crossing public land before feeding Willow Creek.
Another document contained her measurements.
Dates.
Distances.
Timber marks.
And one sentence:
If the channel is expanded, south holdings will fail gradually, making the losses appear natural.
Samuel stopped reading.
Elena watched.
“Miriam knew exactly what would happen.”
“Yes.”
“She was going to report it.”
“Yes.”
“Did she?”
A second letter answered.
Territorial office acknowledged receipt.
Requested in-person verification.
Dated August 20.
Miriam died August 21.
Samuel stared.
Elena said nothing.
He folded the paper carefully.
“Now I want to know.”
“What?”
“How she died.”
Elena looked at him.
Samuel continued.
“I spent six years telling myself not knowing was something I had to live with.”
“That may still be true.”
“I know.”
She studied him.
“You are different today.”
“How?”
“Yesterday you wanted certainty.”