She would not let go. He would not let go. And the river don't not care. Then the map case strapped across his chest, torn loose by the current, the one corner flapping out into the flood. And Wade understood in a flash that he had one free hand and two things to save.
A woman who did not like him, and the only road to a boy. He did not think about it very long. He let go of the map. The oil cloth spread like a wing. The river tore in two.
One half spun away downstream. The other caught on his coat, wet, wrinkled, still there, he dragged, go in through a net of floating branches onto gravel. They collapsed. Coughing, bleeding. And the first thing she said was, "Not thank you.
I had it under control. You were drowning. " I was drowning with control. He laughed. He could not stop it.
It burst out of him like a cork. half laughter, half sobbing. Because he was alive, because she was alive, because across the water, Callaway's men had pulled up short and sat their horses staring at a river they did not dare cross. And because Dakaya washed up three yards away on his back, said calmly to the sky, "I do not like this river. " They lay there a long time. Then Guan Wade's hands, "A river, a ridge, a cabin, a town named Fenwick, no mountains.
" The fourth mark is gone. She said, "Yes, you gave up the destination for me. I gave up a piece of cloth. You gave up a piece of nonin. It landed like a slap.
" Because she was right. And because she hated that she had said it. Her jaw worked. She looked away. I did not ask you to.
I know. I do not owe you. I know. I do not like you. I got that.
Good. A heron stalked the shallows like a judge looking for a defendant. Guan Wade said quietly. For the record, I'd do it again. She'd not answer.
She did not leave and Wade had said that. They walked until dark, wet, starving. Da leaning on both of them. And just past sunset, they came over a rise and saw a lamp in a window. A sod house, a corral, three horses.
No, said Guan. We need horses. That is a white woman's house. It's a house with a corral. You are going to steal them.
I'm going to ask. That is worse. He knocked. The door opened a crack. a woman of 60, iron gray hair, a shotgun older than Wade, and eyes that went from his face to the Apache woman behind him to the bleeding old man and back again. State your business, ma'am.
We're being followed. We need three horses. I I can't pay. I'm sorry. Name?
Wade Harland. The shotgun lowered. Not all the way. Haron. Jonas Harland's boy.
Wade's mouth went dry. You knew him. He dug my husband's well. 1852. Wouldn't take a scent. said water was not a thing a man should sell.
She looked way up and down. You have his chin. God help you. She stepped back, opened the door, and the first thing she did before anything else, before supper, the before name, was take down a tin dipper, fill it from a bucket, and hold it out to Guan. Guan looked at it for a long moment.
Then she took it and drank and handed it to Da. And nobody said a word. They ate by lamplight, biscuits, salt pork. The woman, Mrs. Ridley did not ask a single question. When they rose to go before dawn, she had saddled three horses, a Baymare for Wade, a gelding for Guan, a patient old ran for Dia.
Bring them back or don't, she said. Jonas would have wanted it either way. Wade wanted to say something. Anything. What came out was, "Thank you, ma'am.
Don't thank me. Go and be his boy. " They rode. They reached Fenwick at dusk on Friday. A single street, a dozen buildings, and at the end a low stone office with a cheerful sign, Elas Puit County Records, deeds and wills, light in the window, smoke from the chimney, and a smell drifting out that took Wade straight back to age 10.
Pie, he whispered. You said the pies were terrible, said Guan. Then why are you crying? It's dust. It is not dust.
It's very emotional dust. The door swung open before he could knock. 70 years old, stooped wire spectacles, a cardigan with a hole leaves Elias Puit, tears already streaming down his face. Wade, oh my boy. He pulled Wade into a hug.
Wade stood stiff for a second, then his arms rose slowly. And God help him. He held on. They said you killed Hale. I told them Wade Harland couldn't kill a spider.
I've killed a spider. Not on purpose. Fair. Come in all of you. There is stew and pie.
Which pie? Rhubarb. Oh, no. It is much improved. You said that about the last one.
And I stand by it. They ate because there was nothing else to do. And because miraculously the pie was edible. Guan ate four slices. Dia ate in dignified silence.
And Wade told it all. The canteen, the arrow, the jail, the fire, the boy, the map. Puit listened, wiping his eyes, patting Wade's hand. And when it was done, he sat very still. Voss has until Wednesday, he said at last.
What? A land commissioner is coming to Santa Rosa. a man named Thorne from the General Land Office. He has been writing me for a year about Voss's claims. He will examine every deed in the county. Puit's hands trembled around his cup.
Colonel Hargrove at Fort Kesler is an honest man. But half his officers play cards on Voss's credit. If Voss does not have a proper deed recorded by Wednesday, he loses everything. A proper deed. He has a copy.
He has had it since the night your father died, but it is not sealed with the county bronze. The land office would laugh him out of the room. Puit lowered his voice. He needs the sealed one. Jonas hid it and Voss's search for a quarter of a century.