It leaves Red Bluff at first light. It carries Voss's ledgers in the county worldly survey book to the land office in Santa Rosa. Over Hollis Bridge with every false claim, every forged signature, every map he changed. Wade sat up. That's the proof.
It is the proof. And no soldiers, no guards to a driver. Nalin hesitated and somebody laughed. Who? Callaway.
He said Harland will find it. He cannot help himself. The mind went very quiet. Bait said to Kaya without opening his eyes. Of course it's bait, said Wade.
Then why go? Because it's also real. A thing can be both. I know. That's what makes a good bait.
Wade rubbed his face. Listen, I've spent half my life waiting for somebody to explain the fever for a dead man to tell me what to do. I did everything he said. Keep the cabin. Leave the well.
Say nothing. And look where it got us. I'm done with Voss has been running us like cattle since Wednesday. Cattle don't bite. I'd like to bite.
Guan watched him. A long careful look. Then she checked her rifle. I would like to bite too, she said. Wonderful.
Do we have a plan? That is not a plan. It's a bridge with a plan on it. Hollis Bridge was a wooden trestle strung across the Cedar Wash Gorge. 80 ft of air, 100 ft of bad ideas.
It groaned in the dawn wind like an old woman getting out of a rocking chair. Wade lay on a cross beam beneath the deck. Guan crouched on the beam beside him. Non hid in the rocks at the far end with a coil of rope. And on the planks above stood Da alone hunched under a blanket looking like the most pitiful old man in all the territory.
I do not like this part. Da had said you're old, said Wade. I am proud. You're old and proud. Perfect.
Nobody shoots an old proud man. People shoot old proud men all the time. Then groan convincingly, he groaned. It was a terrible, magnificent groan. Guuan pressed her face into her sleeve to keep from laughing.
The wagon came at sunrise. The creaking heavy pulled by four horses. A driver on the box with a hat pulled low and riding on either side two men in blue. Soldiers. Wade's stomach dropped through the bridge.
Soldiers, Guan breathed. I see them. You said ledgers. I said wagon. Soldiers are not a wagon.
Nobody mentioned soldiers. I mentioned bait. Don't start above them. Tea raised a trembling hand. Water, he croked.
Please, water. The wagon stopped. The older rider swung down. A corporal gray in the whiskers. Tired in the eyes, he unslung a canteen and walked toward the old man.
Because that is what a decent man does. Wade closed his eyes. Not now. Not. Don't think about the canteen.
Don't. Because it's the same. It's exactly the same. It's No. Stop it now, he whispered.
He swung off the beam. Landed on the deck behind the driver rifle level. Guin came over the rail on the other side, calm as a cat, her barrel on the second soldier. Nobody needs to get hurt. The young private's face went white as paper.
He was 19, maybe 20. The hands shaking on his reigns. Easy, son, said Wade. We just want the ledgers. You are the Apache, the boy whispered.
I'm a cowboy. You are the ones from the newspaper. I haven't read it. A rifle cracked. Not Guans, not Wade.
It came from the far rim of the gorge, but sharp and clean. And the old corporal with the canteen still in his hand folded to the planks like a man lying down for a nap. Silence. Then the private screamed. Davies.
Wait, said Wade. No, that wasn't us. You shot him. I I didn't. Look at my rifle.
You shot him. And from the rim above, a voice rang out loud, rehearsed, carrying across the gorge like a church bell. A patchy attack. A patchy attack on the army wagon. Wade whirled.
A rider on the rim. The black hat already wheeling away. Already gone. He dropped to his knees beside the corporal. Pressed a hand to the wound.
Blood too much. The old man's eyes found his. Tried to speak, failed, and then they did not look at anything anymore. Wade knelt there with a dead stranger's blood on his hands. The canteen rolled across the planks.
Stopped again, said quietly. Stop. That was that was all he did. He could not answer. Instead, he turned on the driver.
The wagon. The driver raised both hands. Wade tore off the tarp. Ledgers. Four leather volumes.
He ripped one open. Blank pages to everyone. He opened the survey book blank. He kicked the floorboard. They sounded hollow.
He ripped one up with his bare hands, sawdust, rocks, old newspapers, and one flat envelope taped beneath the wagon bed with a red wax seal. Wade, said Dakaya. I see it. He tore it open. A single sheet, heavy paper, army letterhead, a hand like a ruler.
By order of Captain Ambrose Pike, commanding. At 5:00 Monday morning, the detachment will proceed to the Apache encampment at Cedar Wash. The camp will be cleared by force. Authority: The murder of Deputy Corbin Hale and the unprovoked attack on an army wagon at Hollis Bridge in which Corporal Davies was killed. Dated Saturday, Wade read it three times.
The words would not stay still. Saturday, he said. What? said Guan. It's dated Saturday. Yesterday.
They wrote it yesterday. So, so they wrote the attack before it happened. They wrote Davies's name. They wrote his death. Nobody breathed.
There was never a ledger, said Dakaya. There was never a ledger. It was never about the paper. It was about me. Stopping this wagon, standing on this bridge, looking guilty.
Hurtd, said Guan. Her voice was very small. 61 people said Dakaya. Wade looked at the sky. The sun was already climbing.
Not days. And in that moment, the private still shaking still holding the reins. The whispered. I saw it. The wade turned.