Chapter 12 - Fire in the Smokehouse
Elias Mercer was dead.
That was the first problem.
According to the county records, he had died nine years earlier in New Mexico.
Yet a deed bearing his signature had been filed three days ago.
Josephine stared at the death certificate.
“Well.”
Harrison almost laughed.
“Matador forged a land deed from a dead man.”
“So it appears.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Also good.”
Josephine shook her head.
“Vane isn’t stupid.”
The question was who filed it.
The answer came before sunset.
Cordelia.
She arrived pale and furious.
“Someone used my name.”
Harrison handed her the filing record.
She read it twice.
“That is not my signature.”
Josephine studied her.
“Where were you three days ago?”
“At my sister’s home in Austin.”
“Anyone verify?”
Cordelia’s expression hardened.
“Several.”
“Good.”
“You think I did this?”
“I think somebody wants it to look that way.”
Cordelia sat.
“Vane.”
“Probably.”
Harrison paced.
“If he’s under sheriff supervision, how is he still doing this?”
Gideon answered from the doorway.
“Because Vane isn’t Matador.”
Everyone turned.
“He works for them,” Harrison said.
“Yes. But he doesn’t own them.”
“Who does?”
Gideon hesitated.
“August Bellweather.”
Cordelia’s face changed.
Harrison noticed.
“You know him?”
“Everyone knows him. Banking, cattle, railroads.”
Josephine understood immediately.
The conspiracy was larger than Vane.
If Bellweather controlled regional banks and influenced railway routes, Ironstone represented more than land.
It represented competition.
“Why would a man that rich care about one ranch?” Harrison asked.
Josephine answered.
“Because the first man to control the railway shipping point controls cattle prices for everyone around it.”
Gideon nodded.
“Matador planned to build stockyards here.”
He pointed at the new acreage.
“And a settlement.”
Harrison looked stunned.
“A town.”
“With water and rail access,” Josephine said. “Eventually.”
Ironstone could become the economic center of the region.
That night, fire broke out in the smokehouse.
The alarm came at two in the morning.
Josephine ran outside barefoot beneath her coat.
Flames poured from the rear wall.
Workers formed a bucket line.
Harrison climbed onto the roof.
Josephine screamed at him to get down.
He ignored her.
Together they saved the structure.
But half the preserved meat burned.
The worse loss was inside Josephine’s small office.
Her account books.
Contracts.
Provision-company records.
Gone.
She stood amid wet ash at sunrise.
Months of work reduced to black scraps.
Harrison approached.
“Josephine.”
She did not look at him.
“I should have made copies.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I knew they were attacking records.”
“You couldn’t predict this.”
“I should have.”
He took her hand.
Her fingers were black with soot.
“You saved this ranch.”
“I haven’t saved anything.”
“Yes, you have.”
Josephine looked toward the ruins.
For the first time since arriving, she felt defeated.
Not frightened.
Not angry.
Defeated.
“I’m tired, Harrison.”
“I know.”
“Everybody keeps taking things.”
Her voice cracked despite her effort.
“My uncle took my mother’s house. Gideon stole from you. Matador steals signatures and cattle. Now this.”
Harrison tightened his grip.
“I know.”
“I spend my life building things other people decide they deserve.”
He moved closer.
“No one is taking this from you.”
“This?”
He looked around Ironstone.
“This place.”
Josephine stared at him.
“It isn’t mine.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
Before she could ask what he meant, Judson ran toward them.
“Found something.”
Behind the smokehouse, hoofprints led toward a dry creek crossing.
Beside them lay a brass match safe.
Engraved.
A.B.
August Bellweather.
Too obvious.
Josephine picked it up.
“This was planted.”
Harrison nodded.
“Why?”
“To make us accuse Bellweather without proof.”
“Then whoever did this wants us looking at him.”
Josephine stared toward the road.
“Or wants us looking away from someone closer.”
She turned toward the house.
“Where’s Caleb?”
Nobody answered.
They searched his room.
Empty.
His horse was gone.
So was the payroll box from Josephine’s pantry.
Two thousand dollars.
Judson looked devastated.
“He wouldn’t.”
Josephine wanted to agree.
But the empty room did not care what she wanted.
On Caleb’s bed lay a note.
I’m sorry.
Harrison crushed it in his fist.
Josephine took it.
“Don’t.”
“He stole two thousand dollars.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re still defending him?”
“I’m thinking.”
The note was written neatly.
Too neatly.
Caleb could barely write.
Josephine had watched him struggle to sign his name.
“This isn’t his handwriting.”
Judson looked up.
“Then where is he?”
A rider arrived before noon with the answer.
Caleb had been found unconscious near Red Creek.
His horse was missing.
The payroll money was missing.
And witnesses had seen Gideon Furlong leaving town on Caleb’s horse.
Everyone turned toward Gideon’s room.
Empty.
He was gone too.
Josephine felt fury unlike anything before.
He had done it again.
Used their mercy.
Used their trust.
Harrison’s expression closed completely.
“I should have turned him over to the sheriff the first day.”
Josephine could not argue.
Then she noticed something beneath Gideon’s pillow.
A page torn from the 1888 ledger.
On it was an address in San Angelo.
And one sentence written in Gideon’s handwriting.
If I disappear, find Samuel Croft’s attorney. He knows who really owns Matador.
The address belonged to a lawyer named Nathaniel Price.
Josephine read it twice.
Gideon might have betrayed them again.
Or he might be running toward the last secret capable of saving Ironstone.
Either way, somebody had to follow.
May you like
And this time Josephine was going first.
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