"Is he buying land, too?" O'Malley laughed. A wet, hacking sound. "Harlan? He don't buy land. He buys retirement. $5,000 in gold deposited in a bank in San Francisco.
That's the rumor." "Proof?" Luke asked. O'Malley narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care?" "Because I have a stake in it," Luke lied. O'Malley hesitated. He looked at the bottle.
"Higgins keeps the ledger," O'Malley whispered, "in the safe at the office. It lists the payouts. Morgan is sloppy. He thinks he owns the law, so he writes it all down. Consulting fees, he calls it." "Where is the office?" "Two doors down from the courthouse.
Back door is flimsy." Luke stood up. "Enjoy the drink, O'Malley." He walked back to Ayanna. "We have a target," he whispered. They moved through the back alleys, avoiding the main street. The town felt hostile, vibrating with the energy of the coming conflict.
Ayanna moved like a shadow in her heavy dress, silent and lethal. They found the office. It was dark. Luke tried the back door. "Locked." He looked at Ayanna.
She reached into her hair and pulled out a long, thin pin. She knelt by the lock. "Apaches don't use keys," Luke whispered. "We learn quickly," she murmured. A moment later, the lock clicked.
They slipped inside. The office smelled of ink and dust. Luke struck a match, shielding the flame with his hand. The safe was in the corner. It was locked, but it wasn't a bank vault.
It was a simple strongbox. Luke looked around. He found a heavy iron poker by the stove. "Stand back," he said. He jammed the poker into the gap of the door and leaned on it with his good shoulder.
He gritted his teeth against the pain in his wound. Metal shrieked. The door popped open. Luke rifled through the papers, deeds, surveys. And there it was, a leather-bound ledger.
He flipped it open. His finger traced the lines. "July 12th, payment to CPT. H, $1,000. August 4th, payment to CPT.