Chapter 9 - The Trader
Jacob Merritt was not difficult to find.
He was eating breakfast in Prescott.
Men who believed themselves protected rarely hid.
Caleb sat across from him.
Merritt smiled.
“Scout.”
“Trader.”
“You look worse.”
“You look expensive.”
Merritt laughed.
He wore a new wool coat.
Silver watch.
Fresh boots.
Crowe money had a smell.
“Where’d you get the coat?”
“Bought it.”
“With what?”
“Trade.”
Caleb placed Crowe’s account record on the table.
Merritt’s smile weakened.
His name appeared beside three small transfers from Red Mesa Consolidated.
Not proof of betrayal.
Enough to make the question real.
“You sold information.”
“I sell everything.”
“About Takakota?”
Merritt shrugged.
“Trade requires knowing movement.”
“You told Crowe I was there.”
“No.”
Caleb watched.
Lie.
“You told them Nshoba was injured.”
Merritt looked toward the door.
Caleb kept both hands on the table.
No threat.
That made Merritt more nervous.
“What do you want?”
“Names.”
“I don’t know names.”
“Routes.”
“Caleb—”
“You told Crowe Nshoba was tracking surveyors.”
“I told Bell.”
Arthur Bell.
Crowe’s missing lawyer.
Still active.
“Where is Bell?”
Merritt’s face tightened.
“Black Stone.”
Caleb’s heart dropped.
Nshoba was heading directly toward him.
“What are they doing?”
“Survey.”
“For what?”
Merritt looked down.
“Dam.”
Caleb stared.
Black Stone Spring fed multiple downstream areas used by Apache families and ranches.
A dam would control water.
Crowe did not only want silver.
He wanted everyone dependent on his pipes.
“Who authorized?”
“Territorial development board.”
“Judge Bryce?”
Merritt said nothing.
Of course.
Caleb stood.
Merritt caught his sleeve.
“Don’t go.”
Caleb looked at the hand.
Merritt released.
“Why?”
“They want you there too.”
“What?”
“Bell said Crowe doesn’t care about the badge anymore.”
“Then?”
“He wants Samuel Morrison’s box.”
Caleb went cold.
“How does he know?”
“I told him Rebecca kept an old chest.”
Caleb’s fist tightened.
Merritt flinched.
Caleb did not hit him.
“Why?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
Caleb laughed once.
Merritt looked ashamed.
“Easy for you.”
“No.”
Caleb leaned closer.
“It was easy for my father too.”
That hurt more effectively than a punch.
Merritt whispered:
“They’re going to search the ranch.”
“When?”
“Today.”
Caleb was already moving.
He rode hard.
By afternoon, smoke appeared beyond the ridge.
His heart stopped.
Not the house.
A hay shed.
Burning.
Rebecca and Eli were outside.
Alive.
Caleb dismounted before the horse fully stopped.
“Rebecca!”
She turned.
Blood along her forehead.
Not severe.
“Inside?”
“Two men.”
“Chest?”
“Gone.”
Caleb swore.
“Who?”
“One had a lawman’s badge.”
“Real?”
“I doubt it.”
“Other?”
“Arthur Bell.”
Crowe’s lawyer had searched the property personally.
“What did they take?”
“The military box.”
Samuel’s papers.
Cash.
Original letters.
Caleb’s stomach twisted.
“Copies?”
Rebecca smiled painfully.
“You told me to make them.”
Relief.
“Where?”
“Three places.”
Good.
Crowe still had originals, but truth survived.
“What happened to your head?”
“Bell shoved me.”
Caleb reached for his revolver.
Rebecca saw.
“No.”
“He hit you.”
“He wants you angry.”
Caleb froze.
Rebecca had learned faster than he had.
“Eli?”
“In town with the doctor.”
“He saw?”
“No.”
Good.
Caleb looked at the burning hay shed.
“Why burn it?”
“Search got interrupted by ranch hands.”
Message.
Threat.
Not destruction.
Yet.
Rebecca handed Caleb a paper Bell dropped.
A survey order.
Black Stone Spring.
Signed by Judge Bryce.
And another name.
Rebecca Morrison — conditional seller, northern water easement.
Caleb stared.
“What is this?”
“I never signed.”
The signature looked like hers.
Very close.
Rebecca swore.
“They forged me.”
Caleb examined the witness line.
Jacob Merritt.
There it was.
The trader had done more than sell information.
He witnessed a false deed.
If accepted, Crowe could claim water access through Morrison land connected to the Black Stone project.
Rebecca whispered:
“Dad’s money bought this ranch. Now Crowe uses it to legitimize taking more land.”
The inheritance had become a weapon.
Caleb looked north.
Nshoba was somewhere near Black Stone.
Bell too.
Crowe’s surveyors.
Takakota’s riders.
“I’m going.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Take copies.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because if they kill you, I still want whoever finds your body to know why.”
Caleb almost smiled.
“That’s affectionate.”
“I’m furious with you.”
“For what?”
“Three years.”
Fair.
She hugged him suddenly.
Hard.
Then released.
“Come back.”
Caleb nodded.
Not promise.
Intent.
He rode north.
At sunset, gunfire echoed from Black Stone Ridge.
Three shots.
Then silence.
Caleb pushed harder.
He reached the spring after dark.
Wagons stood abandoned.
Survey equipment broken.
Blood in the snow.
One dead horse.
No bodies.
Then he saw Nshoba’s wagon.
Overturned.
Caleb jumped down.
“Nshoba!”
Nothing.
He found a crutch.
Broken.
Blood on the handle.
Then from behind a boulder came a voice.
“Slow.”
Caleb turned.
Nshoba sat with his back against the rock.
Alive.
His splinted leg extended.
A revolver rested across his lap.
Arthur Bell knelt beside him.
Hands tied.
Nshoba looked exhausted.
“You took long enough.”
Caleb stared.
“What happened?”
Nshoba nodded toward Bell.
“He fell.”
Bell’s face was bruised.
“I was pushed.”
“After falling.”
Caleb almost laughed.
Then Takakota emerged from the darkness with six riders.
His face was not amused.
He looked at his son.
“You left against my order.”
Nshoba nodded.
“Yes.”
“You broke your crutch.”
“Yes.”
“You nearly broke your leg again.”
“Yes.”
Takakota stared.
Nshoba added:
“I found Bell.”
Takakota looked toward the prisoner.
Then back at his son.
“Useful does not make foolish wise.”
Nshoba’s expression softened.
“I know.”
That answer mattered.
Caleb crouched beside Bell.
The lawyer smiled despite his split lip.
“You think I’m the problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Bell leaned closer.
“Because Crowe is already in Prescott.”
Caleb froze.
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Bell smiled wider.
“He’s buying your sister’s ranch tomorrow morning.”
