Chapter 5 - The Warrant
Marshal Edwin Shaw entered the Morrison house carrying a federal warrant and six armed deputies.
Caleb knew Shaw.
Not well.
The marshal had been a rancher before winning office.
He liked rules when rules gave him authority.
Caleb stood in the kitchen with his revolver holstered.
Nshoba remained on the guest-room bed.
Rebecca stood between the marshal and the hallway.
“What charge?”
Shaw unfolded the paper.
“Caleb Morrison: theft of federal military records, assault on a government contractor, obstruction of territorial survey operations.”
Caleb almost laughed.
“Government contractor?”
“Nathan C. Crowe.”
There it was.
Crowe had become legitimate enough to have the law speak for him.
Rebecca said:
“And Nshoba?”
Shaw’s expression became uncomfortable.
“Assaulting survey workers. Theft. Destruction of equipment.”
Nshoba called from the room:
“They put a bear trap in my leg.”
Shaw did not answer.
Caleb asked:
“Who signed the warrant?”
“Judge Alton Bryce.”
“Prescott?”
“Yes.”
Caleb knew Bryce by reputation.
Close to mining interests.
Rebecca folded her arms.
“My guest cannot walk.”
“Then we transport him.”
“You move him without a doctor, you may cripple him.”
Shaw shifted.
Caleb saw hesitation.
Useful.
“Marshal,” Caleb said, “you know what Crowe wants.”
“I know what the warrant says.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Shaw looked at him.
Caleb removed his gun belt.
Set it on the table.
Deputies relaxed slightly.
“I’ll come.”
Rebecca turned.
“Caleb.”
“Nshoba stays until the doctor sees him.”
Shaw shook his head.
“Both names.”
“Then send for the doctor.”
“Not negotiating.”
Nshoba appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on the crutch.
Sweat covered his face from the effort.
His broken leg remained rigid in the splint.
“You take me,” he said.
Caleb stared.
“No.”
Nshoba ignored him.
“To Prescott?”
Shaw nodded.
“Jail.”
Nshoba considered.
Then:
“Fine.”
Caleb swore under his breath.
Nshoba looked at him.
“What?”
“You can barely cross a room.”
“I do not need legs to speak.”
That was exactly what Crowe feared.
Rebecca insisted on accompanying them.
Shaw refused.
She smiled.
“I wasn’t asking.”
They traveled slowly.
Nshoba rode in the wagon with the leg padded.
Caleb sat beside him in irons.
Rebecca followed on horseback.
The old military chest remained hidden beneath apples in the cellar.
Caleb had taken Samuel’s confession letter.
Rebecca carried copies of Crowe’s bank draft inside her dress.
Evidence divided.
Good.
Prescott had grown since Caleb last saw it.
Brick storefronts.
Hotel.
Bank.
Mining offices.
Red Mesa Consolidated occupied an entire corner near the courthouse.
A brass plaque displayed Crowe’s name.
NATHAN C. CROWE — PRESIDENT
Caleb stared.
Three years believing the man dead.
All he had needed to do was read.
Shame often depended on people avoiding newspapers.
Outside the courthouse, reporters waited.
Not for Caleb.
For Crowe.
A black carriage arrived.
The door opened.
Nathaniel Crowe stepped down.
He was forty-nine now.
Heavier.
Clean-shaven.
Gray at the temples.
Expensive black coat.
But Caleb knew the eyes.
Crowe stopped.
For a moment the street disappeared.
Tonto Basin returned.
Smoke.
Orders.
Crowe shouting:
“Hold the south wash!”
Caleb’s fists tightened inside the irons.
Crowe smiled.
“Scout Morrison.”
Caleb’s voice came rough.
“Captain.”
Crowe glanced toward Nshoba.
“So this is Takakota’s son.”
Nshoba stared.
“Come closer.”
Crowe smiled.
“Why?”
“So I can see whether cowardice changed your face.”
Several reporters reacted.
Crowe’s smile held.
“You assaulted my surveyors.”
“They trapped me.”
“Bear traps catch bears.”
“Not when chained on a human trail.”
Crowe turned toward Shaw.
“You allowing prisoners to threaten witnesses?”
Caleb saw it.
Crowe had learned wealth’s most powerful trick.
Speak as though your version was procedure.
Inside the courthouse, Judge Bryce postponed the hearing until morning.
Caleb and Nshoba were placed in adjacent cells.
Nshoba’s doctor finally arrived.
He examined the leg.
Fracture severe but aligned.
No infection yet.
“Months,” the doctor said.
Nshoba stared at the ceiling.
“Before walking?”
“Before walking well.”
That answer hurt more than pain.
After the doctor left, Caleb said:
“You’ll walk.”
Nshoba looked toward him.
“You promise?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Silence.
Then footsteps approached.
Crowe appeared outside the cells.
Alone except for one guard who remained at distance.
Caleb stood.
Crowe looked at him.
“You resemble Samuel more now.”
“Don’t.”
“Your father understood reality.”
“He took your money.”
“Yes.”
Nshoba moved closer to his bars.
Crowe looked at him.
“Your father could have taken money too.”
“He refused.”
“Yes.”
“Then you killed his family.”
Crowe’s expression remained cold.
“Tonto Basin was an operation against hostile elements.”
Caleb laughed.
“You still using that?”
Crowe ignored him.
“I have an offer.”
“Of course.”
Crowe looked toward Caleb.
“The charges disappear.”
“In exchange?”
“You sign a sworn statement confirming Tonto Basin intelligence showed armed raiders among the camp.”
Caleb stared.
“You already have my old statement.”
“I need a fresh one.”
“Why?”
Crowe’s smile thinned.
“Because Boone stole documents.”
So he knew.
Nshoba said:
“And the badge?”
Crowe’s eyes moved toward him.
There.
Fear.
Small.
Real.
Caleb saw it.
“Why does the badge matter?”
Crowe answered too quickly.
“It doesn’t.”
Nshoba smiled.
“Then why threaten children for it?”
Crowe’s expression hardened.
Caleb understood.
The badge was more than identification.
He remembered Samuel’s old army chest.
Quartermasters marked certain badges and tokens with coded numbers.
Maybe the reverse.
He had not checked.
Crowe stepped closer.
“One statement, Caleb. Your sister keeps the ranch. The Apache goes home.”
Nshoba stared at Caleb.
Not pleading.
Watching.
Crowe continued:
“Refuse, and the government seizes the Morrison property as proceeds from military fraud.”
Caleb’s chest tightened.
Rebecca’s home.
Her livelihood.
Her dead husband was buried there.
Crowe smiled faintly.
“You see the problem.”
Caleb whispered:
“You built it.”
“No.”
Crowe looked almost pleased.
“Your father did.”
Then he walked away.
Nshoba waited until the footsteps faded.
“You will sign?”
Caleb looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
Nshoba’s expression turned cold.
Caleb added:
“That’s the truth.”
Nshoba looked away.
“Then decide before morning whether your sister’s house is worth my dead family.”
Caleb sat.
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Across town, bells marked midnight.
And for the second time in his life, Nathaniel Crowe had offered Caleb safety in exchange for silence.
