“But you didn’t take them.”
Tomas spoke in Apache.
Elena translated.
“He says if we had three wagons of rifles, Crowe would not still own so many windows.”
Caleb almost laughed.
Joseph did not.
“Crowe says a band attacked near Dos Cabezas.”
Caleb had heard.
Everybody had.
Three freight guards supposedly killed.
Wagons missing.
Governor considering militia authorization.
Army patrols already moving.
Newspaper headlines screaming about another outbreak.
“What actually happened?”
Elena touched the documents.
“The wagons never went to Dos Cabezas.”
Caleb stared.
“Then where?”
“Crowe’s south warehouse.”
“That’s forty miles from the route.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them.”
Caleb looked at her.
“Why were you there?”
Elena glanced toward Joseph.
Then said:
“I translate for Agent Whitcomb sometimes.”
Caleb knew the name.
Harold Whitcomb.
Federal agent assigned to manage supply contracts and communications with several Apache groups.
A man Caleb had never trusted because Whitcomb spoke about Native families the way merchants spoke about inventory.
Elena continued.
“Whitcomb asked me to meet at Crowe’s trading post.”
“For?”
“He said peace council.”
Joseph’s expression darkened.
“There was no council.”
Elena had arrived with two relatives.
Crowe’s men separated them.
Whitcomb presented papers claiming Apache leaders had accepted relocation of several families farther north.
Elena refused to translate the document falsely.
Crowe became angry.
Then she noticed three government wagons inside the fenced storage yard.
The supposedly stolen wagons.
One tarp had been removed.
Crates beneath it.
Rifles.
Caleb’s stomach tightened.
“Why steal government guns?”
Joseph said:
“Not steal.”
“Sell?”
Elena nodded.
“To who?”
“Militia companies. Mexican buyers. Anyone.”
Caleb looked at the inventory.
Then he understood something worse.
“And blame you.”
“Yes.”
If Crowe could report three hundred forty rifles stolen by Apache raiders, two things happened.
He received payment for the lost cargo.
And territorial authorities became terrified that heavily armed Apache groups were preparing war.
That fear justified military movement.
Militias.
Forced relocation.
Closed trails.
Abandoned ranches.
Government contracts.
Crowe profited from every part.
Caleb stared.
“Who shot you?”
Elena looked toward the hills.
“Crowe’s man, Pike.”
“Orson Pike?”
Caleb knew him.
Former deputy.
Bounty hunter when convenient.
Drunk when unemployed.
“Yes.”
“What happened to the two people with you?”
Silence.
Joseph looked away.
Caleb immediately regretted asking.
Elena’s voice became flat.
“My cousin Daniel escaped.”
“And the other?”
“She did not.”
Caleb lowered his gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
Elena looked at him.
“Her name was Rosa.”
Caleb nodded.
“Rosa.”
She wanted the name remembered.
He understood.
Joseph tapped the papers.
“Elena took these.”
“How?”
Elena almost smiled.
“Crowe thinks women do not understand desks.”
Caleb looked at her.
“He left them unsecured?”