They did not speak much during those long watches. They did not have to. The partnership she had demanded in the barn had forged a steel link between them. When Eli's leg ached from the damp, Maggie would quietly rub a liniment of arnica and turpentine into the muscle, her hands strong and sure. When Maggie's eyes grew heavy, Eli would drape his coat over her shoulders and tell her to close her eyes for an hour.
But vigilance was not enough against a man who owned the law. Silas wrote out on a Tuesday, flanked by the sheriff, a man named Brady, who had a pot belly and eyes that shifted like sand in a windstorm. Mister Crane has raised a concern. Sheriff Brady said, not stepping down from his horse. He says you threatened his men at the creek.
Says you waved a weapon and spoke of violence. I tore down an illegal dam. Eli said, his voice level. That water belongs to the valley, not to Crane's private stock. That is for the courts to decide, Silas said smoothly, flicking a speck of dust from his cuff.
In the meantime, sheriff, I believe there are laws about public morality that we should discuss. Silas turned his gaze to Maggie, who stood on the porch, her hand gripping the railing. We have decent families in this valley, Silas continued, his voice dripping with false concern. "We cannot have questionable influences putting down roots. Vagrancy laws are quite strict about women without clear means of support or a respectable background.
If the ranch were to face foreclosure, for instance, Mrs. Mercer might find herself in a very precarious legal position, it was a threat, naked and ugly. He was telling Eli that if he lost the land, he would lose Maggie too, to a jail cell or a train back east. "Get off my land," Eli said. The colt on his hip was heavy, a promise of violence that hummed in the air.
We are leaving," Silas said, touching the brim of his hat to Maggie. "A pleasant day to you, Mrs. Mercer. Do try to stay out of trouble. " Three nights later, the sky to the east turned a sickly, pulsating orange. It was the homestead of the Svensons, a young couple who had settled three mi down the basin.
By the time Eli and the Hands rode out, the roof had already collapsed. Maggie followed in the buckboard with water barrels, but it was useless. They stood helplessly as the timber frame turned to ash, the heat searing their faces. The Svenson's huddled in the dirt, shivering in their nightclothes, watching their life disappear. It was a lantern.
Mrs. Svenson sobbed, clutching her children. The cow kicked it over. But in the smoky aftermath, as the town's folk gathered to stare at the ruins, the whispers began. Men muttered that Eli's steers had been seen near the barn right before the blaze, spooking the milk cow.
Others looked toward the road where Silas Crane's carriage sat watching, but they looked away quickly, fear sealing their lips. The smell of smoke hung over the valley for days. It seeped into the curtains, into the bedding, into the very pores of their skin. It was the scent of a warning. Then came the night the world broke apart.
It was a moonless night. The air heavy with static. The herd was restless, lowing and shifting in the home pasture. Eli was in the barn, checking the hooves of his geling. Maggie was in the kitchen banking the stove.
The first sound was not a gunshot, but a rumble, a deep vibrating thrum that came up through the soles of their feet. Then came the crack of pistol fire, sharp and rhythmic, coming from the ridge above the house. Stampede! Gus yelled from the bunk house. Maggie ran to the porch.