"More interested in cards than watching doors." Rhett drained his glass. "What about proof? Documents? Ledgers?"
"Anything that shows what they're doing." "If it exists, it'll be in that office. Vickers is meticulous. Keeps records of everything." Hank straightened.
"But Callaway, even if you find proof, who are you going to show it to? The territorial governor's in Vickers's pocket. The military doesn't care. And the federal government's got bigger problems than what happens to a few Apache in the middle of nowhere."
"Then we'll make them care." "How?" Rhett didn't have an answer for that yet. He looked at Ayah, saw the determination in her eyes despite the fear underneath it, and felt his resolve harden.
"We'll figure it out," he said. They spent the rest of the morning watching Vickers's office from across the street, pretending to browse the general store while tracking the guards' routines. Just like Hank said, the two men were more interested in their card game than their job. Stepping outside every hour to smoke and argue about who was cheating.
"We go in at shift change," Rhett said quietly. "They'll be distracted. Tired. Less likely to notice."
"And if someone does notice?" "Then we run fast." Ayah nodded, but her hands were shaking slightly. Rhett covered one with his own.
"You don't have to do this," he said. "You can wait here." "No." She squeezed his hand.
"We do this together. That's what we said." Shift change came at sundown. The two guards were replaced by two others who looked even less interested in their job.
Rhett and Ayah slipped around to the back of the building, where an external staircase led to the second floor. The door at the top was locked, but Rhett had learned a few things in his outlaw years. The lock gave way in under a minute. The office was exactly what Rhett expected.
Neat, organized, soulless. A large desk dominated the center of the room. Filing cabinets lined one wall, and a safe sat in the corner behind a painting of some historical battle Rhett didn't recognize. "Start with the cabinets," he whispered.
"Anything with dates, names, numbers. I'll check the desk." They worked quickly, quietly. Ayah pulled files and spread them on the floor, scanning for anything useful.
Rhett rifled through desk drawers, finding correspondence, invoices, legal documents that made his blood boil with their casual inhumanity. "Rhett." Ayah's voice was tight. "Look at this."
She held up a ledger. Rhett took it and tilted it toward the fading light from the window. It was a record of transactions. People bought and sold like livestock, with prices, dates, and destinations meticulously noted.
He found Ayah's name halfway down one page. "Purchased from Coleman for $100. Sold to a mining operation in Colorado for $800." "They were going to send you to a mine," Rhett said.
Ayah's face had gone pale. "There are hundreds of names here. Children, even. Some as young as six." Rhett felt sick.