This wasn't about pride or a poker hand anymore. This was about justice. The next morning, the proof of Bishop's intentions arrived. Two men rode up to his fence line, not on the main track, but from the direction of Bishop's mining interest to the north. They didn't come to the cabin.
Instead, they began hammering posts into the ground, marking off a square of land that included the spring that fed Caleb's Creek, his only source of water. Caleb grabbed his rifle from above the door and strode out to meet them. May was right behind him, her face a pale, set mask. "This is my land," Caleb said, his voice dangerously low. "You're on my claim. " One of the men, a burly fellow with a week's worth of stubble, just laughed.
He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "Not according to the territorial clerk in Harmony Creek, mister. Bishop filed a new claim on this spring yesterday. Perfectly legal. Says your original survey was in error. " It was a lie, a blatant land grab, but one backed by a piece of paper and a corrupt official.
He couldn't fight it here and now. Shooting them would only make him an outlaw. He stood there, helpless, as they finished their work and rode away, laughing. He looked at the new stakes, a fence of greed cutting through his life. He looked at May.
She was watching him. Her expression not of fear, but of resolute strength. It gave him strength in return. He knew what he had to do. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble.
He went into the cabin and took down the small tin box where he kept his money. He had $40. It was everything he had in the world. "I have to ride out. " He told May, pointing west. "To Carson City. " He tried to explain with gestures.
A man with a star, a telegraph wire. He didn't know if she understood, but she nodded anyway. Her trust in him absolute. He packed his saddlebags with jerky and a canteen. Before he left, May pressed something into his hand.
It was a small, intricately knotted charm made from red thread. A token of luck. He tucked it safely in his shirt pocket. The feel of the love of it, a small, warm spot against his chest. He rode west, not looking back.
Leaving everything he cared about undefended. He was putting his faith in a piece of wire. And the hope that somewhere, miles away, there was still such a thing as the law. Three months passed. The heat of summer gave way to the crisp, golden days of autumn.
The aspens in the high country turned a brilliant yellow. And a chill settled into the valley at night. Caleb's $40 had been just enough to send a detailed telegraph to the US Marshal's office in Carson City. And buy meager provisions for the ride home. Then came the waiting.