Chapter 29 - The Last Debt

Two years after the morning of the three hundred riders, Corvin received notice that the final legitimate mortgage on Torne Ranch could be paid.

He had expected joy.

Instead he stared at the number.

Eleven thousand eight hundred dollars.

The exact debt Vane once used to threaten him.

Jonah stood beside him.

"Pay it."

Corvin looked at the bank draft.

"I was thinking."

"Never a good sign."

"Some of this year's cattle profit exists because drought pushed prices up after other herds failed."

"True."

"We used shared water."

"Also true."

Corvin had enough money to clear the mortgage with several thousand left.

Instead he paid nine thousand.

The remaining profit went into the water cooperative's emergency fund.

Jonah stared.

"You enjoy debt now?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because being free while everyone else remains one drought from ruin doesn't sound very free."

Jonah smiled.

"You know, there was a time you would've punched anyone who talked like that."

"I still might."

The final debt took another year.

When Corvin eventually made the last payment, the bank manager handed him the canceled note.

He carried it outside.

Silas Vane waited across the street.

Older.

Thinner.

He had avoided prison on some counts but served a period of confinement and remained subject to financial penalties and restrictions.

His fortune was gone.

"What are you doing here?" Corvin asked.

"Margaret asked me to collect mail."

Silas saw the canceled mortgage.

"Congratulations."

Corvin looked at the paper.

"You wrote the first version."

"My father did."

"You extended it."

"Many times."

Corvin tore the note in half.

Silas laughed.

"Your mother would have kept that for records."

"Jonah has copies."

"Naturally."

Silas started walking away.

Corvin called, "Silas."

He stopped.

"Did you ever think we'd end here?"

Vane looked around Carrick.

The independent bank.

The restored schoolhouse.

Railway depot.

Public water notices.

"No."

"Where did you think we'd end?"

Silas smiled sadly.

"Rich."

Corvin laughed.

"So did everyone."

Vane walked away.

Corvin rode home.

At sunset, Mara waited beside the well.

A boy from a passing wagon was filling a small bucket.

His mother thanked her.

Mara nodded.

Corvin dismounted.

"The mortgage is finished."

"Good."

"That's all?"

"Would you like three hundred riders to celebrate?"

He smiled.

"No."

She handed him a cup of water.

He drank.

Then noticed the cup.

Old wood.

Worn handle.

His ladle.

The one he gave her before her journey east.

"You kept this."

"You noticed."

"I thought you'd lost it."

"I lose very little."

"Except patience."

"Only around you."

He held the ladle.

Its edge was cracked.

The handle had been repaired with rawhide.

"Why bring it out now?"

Mara looked toward the well.

"Tomorrow is three years."

Corvin understood.

Three years since the afternoon she had appeared beside his fence.

Three years since one drink of water opened decades of buried history.

"What happens tomorrow?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"We work."

He smiled.

For once, nothing sounded perfect.

But that night Corvin could not sleep.

He walked outside.

The moon reflected off the stone well.

He remembered the first morning.

Three hundred riders.

Fear.

A buffalo-hide bundle.

His mother's handwriting.

He had thought the greatest threat was losing his ranch.

Now the thought seemed almost childish.

He had nearly lost something larger:

The chance to decide what kind of man would inherit all those mistakes.

Behind him, Mara stepped onto the porch.

"Still thinking loudly?"

"Very."

She joined him.

Corvin looked toward Black Ridge.

"I used to think inheritance meant receiving what people built."

"And now?"

He looked at the public trough.

"Maybe it means deciding what ends with you."

Mara took his hand.

For a long time they stood beside the water.

Tomorrow, families would arrive again.

Cattle would need feeding.

Fences would break.

Arguments would happen.

Records would require signatures.

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Nothing was solved forever.

That, Corvin finally understood, was the point.