Chapter 8 - Harlan Pike
Harlan Pike ran a livery outside Globe.
Caleb expected a killer.
He found a tired man with a missing ear and three daughters.
That complicated things immediately.
Pike recognized Caleb.
“Should’ve known somebody would come.”
Caleb stood outside the stable.
“Boone?”
Pike’s face changed.
“So he made it.”
“Long enough.”
Pike looked toward the house where his daughters played.
“Not here.”
They walked into the stable.
Caleb did not draw.
That mattered.
Pike leaned against a stall.
“What do you want?”
“Tonto Basin.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You were at Latham ranch.”
Silence.
“You and another man stole cattle dressed as Apache raiders.”
Pike looked toward the door.
“Who told you?”
“Crowe kept records.”
Pike laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
Caleb stared.
A massacre engineered for two hundred dollars and some stolen clothing.
Pike read his expression.
“I didn’t know.”
“What did you think would happen?”
“Insurance claim. Ranchers wanted scare.”
“Crowe hired you.”
“Through Arthur Bell.”
The missing lawyer.
“Who was the other rider?”
Pike hesitated.
“Tom Latham.”
“The ranch owner’s son?”
“Yes.”
Caleb understood.
The supposedly victimized ranch helped manufacture the attack.
“Alive?”
“Phoenix.”
“Will he talk?”
“No.”
“Why will you?”
Pike looked toward his children.
“Because Crowe sent men here last week.”
“To threaten you?”
“To buy me.”
“Difference?”
“Price.”
Caleb almost smiled despite himself.
Pike continued.
“Ten thousand to leave Arizona.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My oldest girl is sick.”
He looked ashamed.
“Doctor says moving could kill her.”
There.
Takakota’s instruction.
A future.
Caleb said:
“Testify to Marshal Shaw. He can arrange protection.”
Pike laughed.
“You trust Shaw?”
“More than Crowe.”
“That ain’t saying much.”
“No.”
“What happens to me?”
“You admit cattle theft, fraud, conspiracy.”
“Prison.”
“Maybe.”
Pike stared.
“That your offer?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I don’t have authority to promise.”
Pike laughed again.
“You’re a poor negotiator.”
“Yes.”
Caleb continued.
“But Crowe needs you silent. That means your daughters are safer if your story is already public.”
Pike stopped laughing.
Caleb let that sit.
“Once you testify, killing you does less.”
Pike looked toward the house.
“What about Tom Latham?”
“We find him.”
Pike rubbed his face.
“I’ll talk.”
Not heroism.
Arithmetic.
Still useful.
Marshal Shaw arrived the next day after Caleb telegraphed.
Pike gave a sworn statement.
He named Crowe.
Arthur Bell.
Tom Latham.
Colonel Hensley’s aide, who paid them.
By sunset, copies were sent to Prescott, Tucson, and a Phoenix newspaper.
Caleb began learning.
Evidence duplicated survived better than secrets guarded by one frightened man.
He rode toward Phoenix.
Halfway there, a winter storm rolled over the high country.
Caleb sheltered inside an abandoned line shack.
Near midnight, someone knocked.
Three times.
Slow.
Caleb drew.
“Who?”
“Man freezing.”
Caleb opened cautiously.
A young Apache rider nearly fell inside.
One of Takakota’s scouts.
Blood on his shoulder.
“Settlement?”
“Safe.”
“Nshoba?”
“Gone.”
Caleb’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He left before dawn.”
“On a broken leg?”
“Wagon.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Who?”
The rider handed Caleb a note.
Nshoba’s handwriting was rough.
You move too slowly. Crowe’s surveyors returned to Black Stone Spring. I am going there. Do not follow unless you intend to listen.
Caleb swore.
The scout said:
“Chief Takakota is angry.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Three.”
“Who else?”
“Nshoba’s healer.”
Good.
Caleb studied the map.
Phoenix east.
Black Stone Spring north.
Harlan Pike’s testimony could wait one day.
Nshoba could not.
Then Caleb stopped.
Predictable.
Crowe had already used threats to move them.
If surveyors returned openly, maybe they wanted Nshoba there.
Caleb asked:
“When did he leave?”
“Yesterday.”
“How did Crowe’s surveyors know he recovered enough to travel?”
The scout frowned.
Exactly.
Someone inside or near Takakota’s settlement had passed information.
Caleb thought of the message delivered within hours of his arrival.
A leak.
He had assumed Crowe’s watchers tracked him.
Maybe not.
“Who knew Nshoba was following the original surveyors?”
“Many.”
“Who knew I saved him?”
“Everyone.”
“Who left settlement before the threat arrived?”
The scout considered.
“One trader.”
“Name?”
“Jacob Merritt.”
Caleb knew him.
White trader operating between settlements.
Friendly with army posts.
Friendly with everyone.
That was rarely accidental.
“Where is Merritt?”
“Prescott.”
Caleb closed his eyes.
Rebecca.
Crowe.
The Morrison ranch.
He had multiple directions again.
He chose.
Not the most dramatic.
The most immediate evidence.
“Merritt first.”
The scout looked surprised.
“You do not follow Nshoba?”
“Takakota has riders going?”
“Yes.”
“Then he has people.”
Caleb saddled before dawn.
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For once, he allowed someone else to rescue the man he cared about.
That felt harder than riding toward gunfire.
