"Has the look of one," Butch said. "Ben, what do you make of that fence?"
Ben had been quiet, studying the line of new posts running along the western edge of the property. "Wasn't there in the spring. I rode this valley in May hunting strays for an outfit near KC. Fence was 30 yards further west then."
"Somebody's mighty sure of themselves moving a line before a judge's order is even a week old."
"A fence don't prove fraud," Carver said. "Just impatience."
"But impatience is worth watching."
"Depends what a man's impatient to hide," Butch said quietly.
Below them, Ruth Hargrove said something to the deputy that none of them could hear, and the deputy looked at his boots instead of answering.
Butch turned his horse down the slope. He hadn't decided anything yet. He told himself he only wanted a closer look at the paper. The others followed because they always did, and because none of them, not even Curry who'd have sworn otherwise, much liked what they were watching, either.
They rode in slow, the way men ride when they don't want to be mistaken for trouble. Though five armed strangers coming down off a ridge were trouble to Cottonwood Flats, whether they meant to be or not. The company men stopped carrying furniture. The deputy's hand drifted toward his sidearm and then thought better of it.
"Afternoon," Butch said, touching his hat brim. "Looks like a hard day for the lady of the house."