Everything was designed to impress and intimidate. They found a boarding house that would take them despite Ayah's appearance, run by a widow who looked like she'd seen enough of life not to judge. Rhett paid for a week in advance, and they holed up in a tiny room on the third floor, planning their next move. "We need to find someone who will listen," Ayah said, spreading the documents on the bed.
"Someone with actual authority." "The question is who. Everyone here is connected to someone else. We pick the wrong person, and we might as well hand ourselves over to Coleman."
They spent two days asking careful questions, talking to clerks and secretaries, trying to figure out who in the vast government machinery might care about what was happening in a distant territory most people had never heard of. Finally, a name emerged. Senator Margaret Brennan, representing Massachusetts, known for her work on Indian affairs and labor reform. She'd been fighting for federal oversight of territorial governments for years, making enemies in the process.
"She's our best shot," Rhett said, reading a newspaper article about one of her speeches. "Maybe our only shot." Getting to see her was harder. They tried the official channels first.
Wrote letters. Requested meetings. Waited in offices where bored clerks told them the senator was very busy and didn't have time for walk-ins. After a week of getting nowhere, Rhett decided to try a different approach.
He waited outside the senator's house at dawn, and when she emerged to enter her carriage, he stepped into her path. "Senator Brennan, I need five minutes of your time." Two men in suits, bodyguards or aides, Rhett couldn't tell, moved to intercept him. But Brennan held up a hand, stopping them.
She was older than her photograph suggested, maybe 60, with iron-gray hair and eyes that looked like they'd seen through every lie ever told. "You have one minute to tell me why I shouldn't have you arrested," she said. Rhett pulled the ledger from his coat and held it out. "Because this proves that territorial officers in New Mexico are running a slave trade under the guise of legal authority."
"And if you don't stop it, it's going to keep happening." Brennan took the ledger, flipped it open, scanned a page. Her expression didn't change, but something hardened in her eyes. "Where did you get this?"
"Stole it from the man doing the buying. Coleman and Vickers are there." "I know who they are." She looked up at him. "Are you Rhett Callaway?"
Rhett's stomach dropped. "You've heard of me." "There's a warrant for your arrest. Multiple counts of theft, assault, and kidnapping an Apache woman."
She glanced past him to where Ayah stood at the edge of the street. "That her?" "She's not kidnapped. She's my wife."
"And those charges are lies told by the same men who are selling people." "Can you prove that?" "That's what the ledger's for." Brennan studied him for a long moment, then looked at her guards.
"Let him pass. Both of them. They're coming inside." The next three hours were the most intense of Rhett's life.
Brennan sat them down in her study and went through every document they'd brought, asking sharp questions, taking notes, cross-referencing names and dates. Ayah did most of the talking, her voice steady as she explained the auction, the holding facilities at Fort Karns, the network of buyers that stretched from New Mexico to Colorado to California. When they finished, Brennan sat back in her chair, face grim. "This is worse than I thought," she said.
"I knew territorial governments were corrupt, but this is systematic trafficking backed by official sanction." "Can you stop it?" Rhett asked. "I can try."
"I'll bring this before the Senate. Demand an investigation. But it won't be fast, and it won't be easy. These men have friends in high places."