Chapter 4 - Hyram Cole’s Ledger
Boon’s horse was gone.
They found the place near Bitterroot Pass just before sundown.
A patch of trampled snow.
A broken branch.
A frozen smear where Boon had fallen after being shot.
But no horse.
Cora stood with her hands on her hips.
“You are having an impressive week.”
Boon scanned the trees.
“He was tethered here.”
“Apparently he disagreed.”
“Cyrus doesn’t wander.”
“Then someone took him.”
Boon crouched.
Fresh tracks crossed the snow.
Two horses.
“One rider came from the east,” he said.
Cora pointed to another set.
“And left with two horses.”
Boon looked up.
“You track?”
“My husband did.”
The mention of Caleb came easier than before, but only barely.
Boon examined the tracks.
“These were made today.”
“Hyram’s men?”
“Likely.”
Cora looked toward the darkening ridge.
“So they have the ledger.”
“Maybe.”
“Comforting.”
Boon ignored the sarcasm.
“My saddlebag has a false bottom.”
Cora blinked.
“Of course it does.”
“If they didn’t know where to look—”
“They were willing to shoot you for it.”
He nodded.
“They might know.”
The temperature dropped rapidly.
They could not remain exposed.
Cora knew of a line shack half a mile west.
It belonged to no one now.
Years earlier, stage riders had used it during storms.
The roof leaned.
But it was dry.
Cora gathered branches while Boon struggled to light the stove.
His wound had begun hurting again.
He hid it badly.
“You need rest.”
“I need that ledger.”
“You need blood inside your body.”
“I have plenty.”
“You said that after almost fainting twice.”
“I did not faint.”
“You leaned unconscious against a tree.”
“I was thinking.”
Cora almost laughed.
It surprised her.
She had forgotten what laughter felt like.
They ate the final strips of dried rabbit.
Boon removed his boots.
Cora noticed scars across his left ankle.
Old ones.
“Railroad accident,” he said.
She looked up.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“You were staring.”
“I was observing.”
“A dangerous habit.”
“So is getting shot.”
He stretched his leg.
Cora sat opposite him.
“Tell me about Hyram.”
Boon’s expression changed.
“He was my father’s foreman.”
“I know.”
“He started as a drover.”
“How does a drover become powerful enough to steal thousands of acres?”
“By making himself indispensable.”
Boon stared into the stove.
“My father trusted results more than people. Hyram delivered results.”
“Meaning?”
“More cattle. Lower losses. More land.”
“Your father never asked how?”
“Not enough.”
Cora heard guilt in his voice.
“You hated him?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
That answer came softly.
“I admired him when I was young. Feared him later. Understood him after he died.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“Did he know what Hyram was doing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“No.”
Cora considered him.
“You inherited money.”
“Yes.”
“Land.”
“Yes.”
“Power.”
“Yes.”
“And trouble.”
Boon looked at her.
“Mostly trouble.”
She pulled her shawl tighter.
“I inherited chickens.”
“That sounds peaceful.”
“They bite.”
“Then perhaps we are equally burdened.”
This time she laughed.
Quietly.
But she laughed.
Boon stared.
Cora immediately stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I was observing.”
She threw a twig at him.
The moment passed.
Outside, night settled over the mountains.
Near midnight, hoofbeats woke them.
Boon was on his feet before Cora fully opened her eyes.
Pain twisted through him, but he reached for the borrowed revolver they had found in the line shack.
Cora grabbed her shotgun.
The hoofbeats stopped.
A shadow moved past the window.
Boon raised one finger.
Wait.
The door opened slowly.
Cora aimed.
A horse pushed its head inside.
She blinked.
“Cyrus?”
Boon lowered the pistol.
The bay gelding stood trembling outside.
His reins dragged.
The saddle remained.
So did one saddlebag.
Boon limped forward.
“Easy, boy.”
The horse had a shallow cut on its flank.
Nothing serious.
But someone had clearly tried to hold him.
Cora examined the reins.
“Broken.”
“He got loose.”
Boon opened the saddlebag.
Empty.
His jaw tightened.
“They took it.”
Cora noticed stitching along the bottom.
“The false compartment?”
Boon pulled a small knife from his boot and cut three threads.
A thin leather book slid into his hand.
He looked at Cora.
“They missed it.”
For the next hour, they sat beneath lantern light turning pages.
The ledger contained dates.
Parcel numbers.
Initials.
Payment amounts.
Cora understood little at first.
Boon explained.
“Here.”
He pointed.
“Parcel 19-B. Widow Russell’s farm.”
“Evicted last fall.”
“Company records say we purchased it for six hundred dollars.”
“She never received six hundred dollars.”
“How do you know?”
“She moved into her sister’s kitchen in Black Pine.”
Boon wrote a note.
“Parcel 22-C.”
“Jensen family.”
“Sold?”
“Evicted.”
Another notation.
Another forged purchase.
They turned page after page.
Forty-three properties.
Then Cora saw the name.
HAYES, CALEB.
Her breath stopped.
Boon noticed.
She pointed.
Page seventy-two.
Survey correction request.
Hayes Homestead Boundary.
Below it:
Denied—H.C.
“What does that mean?”
Boon read silently.
“It means Caleb disputed a boundary.”
“With whom?”
He turned the page.
His expression tightened.
“Company grazing tract fourteen.”
Cora stared.
“The south meadow.”
“Yes.”
“That is part of our forty acres.”
“According to this, Caleb said the company fence had crossed onto your property by seventeen acres.”
Cora remembered.
Caleb complaining about new stakes.
Caleb riding into town.
Caleb returning angry.
She had thought it was over grazing rights.
“There’s more,” Boon said.
At the bottom was another note.
Surveyor claims original syndicate map altered after filing.
Cora felt cold.
“What does that mean?”
“He believed someone changed the official map.”
“Hyram?”
“He initialed the denial.”
Cora turned the page.
A loose sheet fell to the floor.
Boon picked it up.
The paper was folded twice.
Inside was a short handwritten note.
The ink had faded.
Boon read it.
His face became very still.
“What?”
He handed it to Cora.
She recognized Caleb’s handwriting immediately.
Mr. Tagot,
If this reaches you, please understand that the boundary fraud extends far beyond our property. I have found at least twenty-seven homesteads whose survey lines were altered after filing. Hyram Cole has access to the field books.
I have made a full copy.
I will deliver it personally.
C.H.
Cora could not breathe.
Caleb had known.
He had tried to contact Boon.
“When was this written?”
Boon checked the date.
“Eleven days before his death.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Cora sat.
For almost a year, Caleb’s death had lived in her memory as senseless tragedy.
Now it had a shadow.
A reason.
A name.
Hyram.
Boon crouched beside her.
“Cora.”
“Where is the full copy?”
“I don’t know.”
“He said he made one.”
“Yes.”
“Then it has to be somewhere.”
“Possibly.”
She stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
“At the cabin.”
“Wait.”
“I searched Caleb’s papers, but I wasn’t looking for survey records.”
“Cora.”
“I need to go back.”
Boon caught her arm.
“Hyram’s men may still be there.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Again those words.
She looked at his hand on her arm.
He released her.
Boon spoke carefully.
“If Caleb hid evidence, Hyram may know that now.”
“How?”
“Because whoever told Hyram I was coming may also know what I was investigating.”
Cora looked toward the snow-covered darkness.
Her cabin was several miles away.
Her husband’s secrets might be inside.
So might the men who wanted them destroyed.
Boon closed the ledger.
“We go before dawn.”
Cora nodded.
Neither of them slept again.
And miles away, a lantern burned in Cora’s empty cabin as Hyram Cole himself stepped through the broken doorway for the first time.
He looked around the one-room house.
Then smiled.
“Find the surveyor’s copy.”
One of his men asked, “And if the widow comes back?”
Hyram removed his gloves.
May you like
“Then this time, don’t miss.”
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