Whitcombe began. "Mr. Red Willow. Good morning to you. You'll know Miss Lindqvist, the teacher here."
Amos Red Willow looked at Cora. He had a long, still face and eyes that did not hurry.
"I know who she is," he said.
"The district asked that she be present," said Whitcombe, "so that you might understand what is at stake on this ground. Not a fence. Not a cattle company. A school."
Cora had the deed in her hands. She had not meant to say anything yet. She had thought Whitcombe would do the talking. But the boy was looking at her, and the whole wide, hot morning seemed to be waiting, and she heard her own voice come out clear and a little too loud, the way it did on the first day of a term.
"Children have studied here for twelve years."
She meant it as a plain fact and as a wall: forty-one names in the enrollment book, the initials in the frame. Whatever is wrong between you, you cannot put it on them.
Amos Red Willow did not look away from her. "I know how long," he said. "I watched them build it."
"Then you'll know," said Whitcombe, "that it was built on Mr. Pruitt's land, given freely to the district, and has stood on his claim without objection—"
"Not on his claim."
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The horse shifted under him and he settled it with his knees, and the boy in front of him tightened his fists in the mane.
"That is precisely the question before the Land Office," said Whitcombe, "and it has been answered. Twice. Miss Lindqvist, if you would."
She unfolded the plat on the sill between them, and Whitcombe put out one thick finger and laid it on the red circle.