"That ain't proof of nothing legal," Curry said.
"No," Butch said, "but it's proof somebody wanted the ground to already look settled before anybody looked close at the paper. A company sure of its deed don't need to move a fence in the dark weeks ahead of a judge's writ."
He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. "We got four days before that train payroll moves. I aim to spend one of them in Buffalo."
Curry swore under his breath, but he didn't argue further. He never did once Butch had decided. He only made sure everyone knew he didn't like it.
Buffalo sat a half day's ride north, the seat of Johnson County, its courthouse and its land office standing within sight of one another on the same dusty street. Butch went into the land office alone, dressed plain, and came out an hour later with a look Sundance had learned to read as trouble finding its shape.
"Tract books still lists the Hargrove patent clean as anything," Butch said, swinging up onto his horse. "Nobody's touched that record. Whatever's wrong here, it isn't the homestead. It's what came after it."
He nodded toward the courthouse across the street. "County clerk's office is where the deed itself would have been recorded. That's where I want a longer look."
Inside, a nervous clerk named Halloran confirmed, after some coaxing, that the Hargrove deed had been recorded in July, five months after the date written on the deed itself, and that the notarization had been handled by a man named Elias Roark, who'd clerked in that same office two years back before leaving under a cloud nobody explained to Butch clearly. Roark's notary commission, Halloran admitted reluctantly, had lapsed the previous winter and was never renewed.
"So, the man who swore this signature was genuine wasn't even a licensed notary when he swore it," Butch said.