Chapter 2 - The Red Cloth
Caleb did not sleep.
Kalisa's people camped half a mile south of the ranch rather than near the house. Whether that distance was an act of courtesy or caution, Caleb could not tell.
He sat at his kitchen table with Mary's old scarf box open in front of him.
There were three scarves inside.
Blue.
White.
Brown.
The red one was gone.
He already knew that.
He had known for five years.
Mary had been wearing it the morning she left for Mason Creek.
At least, that was what Caleb remembered.
He poured coffee into a tin cup and did not drink it.
Shortly before dawn, someone knocked.
Caleb reached for the revolver beside his cup.
“Who?”
“Kalisa.”
He opened the door only halfway.
She stood alone.
Her hands were visible.
“You should leave before sunrise,” Caleb said.
“We will.”
“Then leave.”
Kalisa touched the red cloth in her hair.
“You recognized this.”
Caleb's eyes fixed on it.
“Where did you get it?”
“My father.”
“Where did he get it?”
She hesitated.
“From Mary.”
Caleb pulled the door wider.
“No.”
“She gave it to him.”
“No.”
“Five years ago.”
Caleb stepped onto the porch.
“You're lying.”
Kalisa's expression remained controlled.
“My father carried that cloth home the night your wife died.”
Caleb grabbed her wrist.
The movement was sudden.
Kalisa did not flinch, but her free hand immediately moved near the knife at her belt.
Caleb saw it.
He released her.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Not while you look at me as though you want to kill me.”
“My wife was murdered.”
“So was my brother.”
“By who?”
“That is what I came here to find out.”
Caleb stared at her.
“You don't know?”
“I know pieces.”
“Start with those.”
Kalisa looked toward the eastern sky.
“My father met Mary more than once before she died.”
“Why?”
“She was carrying letters.”
“What letters?”
“Between my father and a man at Fort Lyman.”
Caleb frowned.
The fort had been abandoned three years ago.
“What kind of letters?”
“Warnings.”
“About what?”
“Water.”
The answer sounded absurd.
Then Caleb remembered Reeves.
Five years earlier, Hargrove had been buying ranches across three counties.
Always ranches with wells.
Always ranches beside old wagon routes.
Kalisa continued.
“Someone was closing springs used by both settlers and our families. Fences appeared. Wells were spoiled. People blamed one another.”
Caleb looked toward his own stone well.
“And Mary was involved?”
“She believed someone wanted violence.”
“Mary never told me any of this.”
“She was afraid you would stop her.”
That landed deeper than Caleb expected.
“My wife wasn't afraid of me.”
Kalisa's eyes softened, but not enough to feel like pity.
“People can love someone and still fear what grief or anger will make them do.”
Caleb looked away.
He hated that she sounded like Mary.
“Where is Tokala?”
“At Red Mesa.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't he come himself?”
“Because five years ago Reeves Hargrove told half this territory that Tokala murdered Mary Whitlock.”
Caleb's head snapped toward her.
“How do you know Reeves said that?”
Kalisa reached into the leather pouch at her side.
Caleb tensed.
She removed a brass cartridge casing.
It was old, darkened by age.
She placed it on the porch rail.
Caleb picked it up.
Stamped into the base were letters.
F.L.A.
Fort Lyman Arsenal.
“This was found where Mary died,” Kalisa said.
Caleb's throat tightened.
“She died in an Apache attack.”
“That is what you were told.”
“Those people used rifles too.”
“Yes.”
Kalisa nodded.
“But this cartridge belonged to a military issue batch that my father saw delivered to Reeves Hargrove's men three weeks before the attack.”
Caleb stared at her.
“That's impossible.”
“My brother followed the wagon.”
“Why?”
“Because he believed Hargrove was supplying weapons to raiders.”
“Apache raiders?”
Kalisa gave him a long look.
“Men who wanted others to believe they were Apache.”
Caleb closed his fist around the casing.
The porch seemed to tilt.
Five years of certainty suddenly felt like rotten timber beneath his feet.
A rider appeared on the north road.
Caleb recognized the horse.
Silas Boone.
Hargrove's foreman.
Kalisa immediately stepped away from the porch.
Silas approached slowly.
“Morning, Caleb.”
His eyes moved toward Kalisa.
Then to the red cloth.
Something flickered across his face.
Fear.
Caleb noticed.
“What do you want, Silas?”
“Mr. Hargrove heard you had visitors.”
“He hears a lot.”
“He worries.”
“About me?”
Silas gave a thin smile.
“About trouble.”
Kalisa mounted her horse.
Silas watched her.
As she rode away, he called after her.
“Red Mesa's a long way from here.”
Kalisa did not turn.
Caleb looked at him.
“How'd you know where she's from?”
Silas froze.
Only for a fraction of a second.
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But Caleb saw it.
And for the first time in five years, the man he had trusted to help bury Mary looked like someone who knew more about her death than he had ever admitted.
