The column halted 100 yards off. Captain Ambrose Pike was a long gray man with a face like a closed door. He rained in, looked down, and did not seem pleased. M, you are standing in the path of the United States Army. I noticed.
Move. No, I am under orders. I read them. Dated Saturday before the attack that justifies them ever happened. He pulled the sod in order from his coat and held it up.
Your hand captain, your seal written the day before the attack. It blames. A muscle jumped in the captain's jaw. Nothing else moved. Who are you?
The Wade Harland, the murderer. The man Garrett Voss wanted you to believe was one. Behind Pike, a trooper shifted in his saddle. Another studied his boots, and the captain drew a breath to give the order. Wade saw it coming.
He stood there with nothing in his hands and no hat on his head and waited for the bugle. It came, but not from Pike's side. From the north, over the lip of the hill, a second line of blue, a bugle, a fluttering flag, a dozen riders in an ambulance wagon with a white canvas top. And at the front, riding hard beside a big man with a white mustache, a freckled private rope burned and holloweyed. Weller Wade breathed.
The colonel arrived at a gallop big white mustache. The big red face. Beside him rode a thin man in a black traveling coat, clutching a leather satchel with both hands, looking like he had not enjoyed a single mile. Captain Pike, said the colonel. Stand down, sir.
I have orders. You have my orders which supersede yours which I wrote at midnight which this gentleman commissioner Thorne of the general land office witnessed. Weller rained in beside him looked straight at Pike's front rank. Sergeant Mills. Corporal Davies told me the captain said something would happen at the bridge.
He told you too. I heard him. The sergeant did not answer. He did not have to. His face did it for him.
Pike's lips went white, but he sheathed his saber. That said, Wade softly, is the best sound I've heard all week. And from the ambulance wagon, a thin voice called, "Wait, my boy. " Wade turned. A stooped old man in a cardigan was climbing down one arm in a sling.
His spectacles cracked, his face gray as paper. Elias Puit, "You were shot," said Wade. "Wice once in my own doorway by one of Callaway's men. And then the man himself asked me about the vault politely with a boot on my hand. " Puit's voice shook.
I told him, "You took the case. I told him everything. I am not proud. Elias, he left me for dead. I crawled onto a freight wagon, reached Fort Kesler on Saturday night.
The commissioner was already there. He had come early. He did not trust the date he gave me. Colonel Hargrove had been reading my letters for a year. He swallowed.
Weller came in on Sunday noon and finished the argument. Wade stood very still. He had told this man he would not forgive him. He had left him standing in a doorway with a lantern and the old man had crawled 30 mi with a bullet in him to put it right. Elias, he said.
Hi. Next Christmas. Puit laughed. It broke in the middle and turned into something else. Rhubarb, he whispered.
God help me. Yes. Then wheels. A buggy rolled over the ridge from the opposite direction. White paint, silver trim.
And in it, one bandage sleeve resting on the door sat Garrett Voss. Not a speck of dust on his suit, a leather case on his lap. Beside him, gray and silent, rode Sheriff Amos Rudd. But behind them, on a black horse, stiff and grim and hating everything, Callaway. Voss's eyes fell on Wade.
And for the first time in all those years, the smooth, warm, practiced face fell off like a mask. "You," he whispered. "Morning, Garrett. You are dead. I've been hearing that.
I saw the well. I saw the rope. I saw I saw a hole. I saw a door. My father built it.
Boss's mouth worked. His hand tightened on the case. He looked at the colonel, at the commissioner, at the lines of soldiers, and Wade watched the man do the thing he did best, which was recover. "Gentlemen," said Voss, and the voice began to purr again. "Thank God.
I came to witness the lawful clearing of a camp that has trespassed for a decade. " "This man is a fugitive and a killer, and I carry the original deed to the Cedar Washlands, signed and sealed in 1859. I intended to record it in Santa Rosa at 9:00. I will place it in your hands this hour, commissioner. I would be glad to see it, said Thorne.
He opened the case, lifted out the deed, the red wax, the bronze seal, the ribbon, the signature like a picket fence. Witnessed Jay Harland sealed with the county bronze, said the commissioner slowly, curious. Where did you find it? Mister the Voss. It was in my keeping, said Voss.
Mr. Henthornne turned. You are the son I am. Is this your father's hand? It is. Then you admit the signature is genuine.
A very small silence. Every eye on Wade and Voss behind the buggy rail smiling the smile of a man who has set a table and is only waiting for his guest to sit. It is said Wade. He signed it at a kitchen table on the first night of September 1860 with a pistol beside the pen. The smile stopped.
The deed is dated 1859, said Thorne. Yes, those do not match. No, look at the ribbon. the tiny holes. Elias. The Puit was already crossing the grass on the colonel's arm.
He took the ribbon in two shaking fingers, held it up against the gray light, and his lips began to move. "Lighthouse," he whispered. "Oh, Jonas, read it. Three and three. All clear.
It is a simple code, Commissioner. We made it up for a child. " And slowly, in a voice that grew steadier with every word he read, signed under threat. Backdated by G. Voss, well, of Jay Harland.