She was exhausted, her legs screaming from the grip on the saddle, but she did not slow down. She saw Eli in the moonlight, his silhouette jagged and determined. He did not posture. He did not waste energy on curses or anger. He simply worked.
He was a man who spoke the language of the land and the animals, and tonight he was fighting for them. By dawn they had turned the herd back. The cattle were spooked and lthered, but they were on conceded grass. Eli slid from his saddle near the cut fence. He stumbled when his boots hit the ground, his knees buckling from sheer exhaustion.
He caught himself on the fence post, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Clara dismounted and went to him. She saw the fatigue etched into his face, the gray circles under his eyes. He looked brittle, as if one strong wind would snap him in two. "They want to wear us down," Eli rasped, touching the severed wire.
"They know they cannot win in court yet, so they will kill us by inches." "No sleep, no safety." "We fixed it," Clara said, handing him his canteen. "We brought them back. This time," Eli said.
He took a long drink, water spilling down his chin. Next time they might run them off a cliff. They were mending the wire as the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and red. The sound of hooves approaching made them both freeze. Three riders appeared on the rise.
At the front was Silas Vance, Harlon Pike's foreman. He was a man built like a barrel with a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite and left to weather. Eli stood up slowly. He picked up his rifle, not aiming it, but holding it across his chest. Clara moved to stand slightly behind him, her hand resting near the pistol tucked in her belt.
"Morning Concaid," Vance called out. He did not smile. "Looks like you had some trouble. Trespassers," Eli said calmly. "Cut my fence.
Is that so?" Vance rode closer, stopping his horse just on the other side of the wire. Shame. Maybe your cows just know where the better water is. The creek on Mister Pike's land is flowing real nice.
The creek is common water, Eli said. And the boundary is 5 mi south. You know that, Vance. I know what the map says today, Vance said, leaning on his saddle horn. Maps change, owners change, Mister Pike is a patient man, but he hates to see good land wasted on a man who cannot hold it.
Vance's eyes flicked to Clara. He looked her up and down with a slow, insolent stare, and he surely hates to see a lady working so hard. Maybe she would be happier in town. I hear she has friends there." Eli's knuckles turned white on the rifle stock.
The muscles in his jaw jumped. Clara saw the shift in him. the concaid blood rising. The urge to end the insult with a bullet. The air between the men grew thin and tight. "Get off my land," Eli said.
His voice was not loud, but it vibrated with a deadly frequency. Vance chuckled. "I am on the public road, neighbor. Just passing through." He turned his horse.
"Fix that fence, good concaid. Be a shame if it happened again tonight." As they rode away, Eli lowered the rifle. He stood staring after them, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath.
He had chosen strategy. He had chosen not to give Pike the excuse of a shooting war, but Clara could see the cost of it. The restraint was eating him alive. That night, the reality of their siege settled into the house. Clara prepared for bed with a ritual that broke Eli's heart to watch.
She checked the heavy bolt on the front door twice. She checked the shutters on the windows. When she climbed into bed, she slid a small, sharp pairing knife under her pillow. She did it casually as if she were tucking away a handkerchief. Eli sat on the edge of the bed, watching her.
You should not have to sleep with a knife. "I sleep better with it," Clara said simply. She lay back, her dark hair fanning out on the white pillowcase. It is not because I do not trust you, Eli. It is because I know the world.
Eli did not try to talk her out of it. He did not tell her it was foolish. He simply nodded, blew out the lamp, and lay down beside her. He reached for her hand in the dark, interlacing their fingers. He squeezed tight, and she squeezed back.
It was an acknowledgement of their shared reality. They were the only two people in the world they could trust. The days that followed were consumed by a new mission. If they could not fight Pike with guns, they would fight him with paper. They turned the kitchen table into a war room.
Clara unlocked her trunk and brought out the bundle of letters. She showed Eli the ledger pages she had managed to keep, the ones Sarah had stolen. Here, Clara pointed to a column of figures. This matches the dates when Pike was moving herds across the border. And here this name, Judge Halloway.
He was the one who dismissed the charges against Pike's men in Tucson. It is a pattern, Eli said, tracing the lines with a calloused finger. He buys the law before he breaks it. We need a witness, Clara said. The letters are hearsay without someone to swear to them.
But if we can get this to the circuit judge in Cheyenne, Judge Athetherton is known to be hard, but honest, we might get an injunction. Cheyenne is 4 days ride, Eli said. And we cannot leave the ranch undefended. We cannot stay here and wait to be burned out. Clara countered.
They decided to go to the town sheriff first to test the waters. Perhaps Eli hoped. Sheriff Miller was merely incompetent, not corrupt. If they could file an official report about the fence cutting, it would be on the record for the circuit judge. It was a mistake.
Eli rode into town to file the report, leaving Clara at the ranch to guard the house. He returned 3 hours later, his face gray. Miller would not take the report, Eli said, throwing his hat on the table. He said without proof of who cut the wire. It is just wear and tear.
And then, Eli paused, looking sick. Then I saw him in the back office drinking whiskey from a bottle with a distinct blue label. The same whiskey Pike imports for his private stock. He is bought, Claraara said. She did not look surprised.
We have no law here. 2 days later, the war came to Clara. Eli was working on the windmill, the metal gears screeching in the dry wind. Clara had walked down to the creek, the lower section that was still undeniably theirs, to wash the dust from the laundry. It was a/4 mile from the house, obscured by a line of cottonwoods.
She was scrubbing a shirt against the washboard. The cold water numbing her fingers when the birds in the trees suddenly went silent. Clara straightened. She wiped her hands on her apron. She listened.
The rustle of the brush was behind her. She spun around, reaching for the small knife she now carried in her pocket, but she was too slow. A rope hissed through the air. A lasso loop dropped over her shoulders and tightened instantly, pinning her arms to her sides. She was jerked off her feet, dragging through the gravel and mud.
She didn't scream, she kicked. She twisted her body, fighting the rope. But the man on the other end was strong. She was hauled up against the trunk of a cottonwood tree. A man stepped out of the brush.