And now she is pregnant." Harland said, his voice low with disgust. "A half-breed brat on the way. It is an insult, Silas. It is a pollution of the community.
If we let this stand, what is next?" "We have to be careful." Thorn warned. "Ward is popular with some of the independent ranchers now. They like that he stood up to you."
Harland smiled, a cold, reptilian expression. "We do not have to break the law, Silas. We just have to enforce it. The law says that a child must be raised in a suitable environment. The law says that a woman with a history of instability might not be fit."
He leaned forward. "We break Ward. We make him lose the land. We make him look like a madman. And then we step in to save the poor woman and her child for the good of the state."
Thorn nodded slowly. "And the child?" Harland's eyes went dead. "The child is an unfortunate complication. Complications have a way of resolving themselves if the mother is stressed enough."
Outside, the wind began to howl, rattling the windows of the saloon, a herald of the storm that was gathering not in the clouds, but in the hearts of wicked men. The peace that Elias and Naya had found was not a fortress. It was a glass house built on shifting sand. The change in the air was subtle at first, a sharpening of the wind that carried malice rather than just the coming winter. It started with the fences.
Elias rode out one Tuesday morning to find the western line cut. It was not the work of a wandering bull or a spooked mustang. The wire had been severed cleanly with cutters. The posts dragged out of the earth and left to rot in the sun. It took him 2 days to repair it, his hands blistering as he twisted the heavy-gauge wire, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon.
2 days later, the water trough in the south pasture was filled with dead crows. Elias found them floating in the green scum, their black feathers iridescent in the harsh light. When he knelt to inspect the water, the chemical reek of arsenic hit him like a physical blow. He had to drain the entire tank and haul fresh water from the creek, bucket by agonizing bucket, to keep the few cattle he had left from drinking the poison. Then came the calf.
It was a Hereford cross, one of the few promising additions to his herd. He found it near the dry wash, bleating pitifully. Someone had roped it and held a running iron to its flank. They had not branded it with a mark of ownership. They had simply burned a jagged, nonsensical scar over Elias's own brand, scorching the hide deep enough to ruin the animal.
Elias put the calf down with a single shot, his heart cold as stone. He rode into town the next day, storming into the sheriff's office with the blood still dried on his gloves. "It is Harland." Elias told the deputy, a man named Miller, who spent more time polishing his boots than walking a beat. "He is poisoning my stock and cutting my wire."
Miller leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk. "You have proof, Ward?" "I have dead birds and a mutilated calf." "That is not proof," Miller said, picking his teeth. "That is bad luck.