“Just Hurry and Kill Me,” She Whispered—Until the Cowboy Saw Her Scars and Promised Revenge_VMDT

“Just Hurry and Kill Me,” She Whispered—Until the Cowboy Saw Her Scars and Promised Revenge_VMDT

Jake Morrison first noticed the smoke from three miles away, a dark smudge against the azure New Mexico sky. He pulled his chestnut geling to a halt on the ridge line, the animals sides heaving from the steep climb. 20 years as a frontier scout had taught him that smoke rising straight and black rarely meant good news.
“What do you think, Chester?” Jake muttered to the horse who flicked an ear in response. Another ranch raid. Jake unslung his Winchester 73 from the saddle horn and levered around into the chamber. At 58, his eyes weren’t what they used to be, but they could still pick out details most men half his age would miss.
Through his brass spy glass, he scanned the distant plume rising from a small valley nestled between twin maces. The Apache encampment. A knot formed in Jake’s gut. Chief Red Horse’s people had been peaceful for years, trading with settlers and keeping to the agreement they’d made with the territorial governor. Whatever was happening down there wasn’t some random skirmish. It was deliberate.
Jake nudged Chester forward, keeping to the treeine as he descended. The smell hit him. first gunpowder, burning hide, and something else. Something sickeningly familiar from his days with the Seventh Cavalry. Death. The village came into view as Jake rounded a limestone outcropping. What had once been a collection of 20 odd dwellings was now a smoking ruin.
Bodies lay scattered among the charred remains of teepeees and brush shelters. Women, children, old men. Jesus Christ,” Jake whispered, dismounting and drawing his Colt Navy revolver. He moved through the devastation with the careful precision of a man who’d seen too many ambushes. The attack couldn’t have happened more than an hour ago.
Some of the fires still burned hot. Whoever had done this might still be nearby. Jake knelt beside the body of an elderly man he recognized as one of Red Hor’s counselors. The man’s chest bore three bullet wounds. Center mass professional work, not the random shooting of frightened settlers or drunken cowboys. These people had been executed.
A strangled cry broke the eerie silence. Jake whirled pistol raised to see a figure dangling from the branch of a cottonwood at the village’s edge. a noose around his neck, feet, barely touching a overturned barrel, arms bound behind his back, and he was still alive. Jake sprinted across the camp, holstering his revolver as he ran.
He reached the man, an Apache elder, by his gray braids and ceremonial vest, and quickly steadied the barrel beneath his moccasins. Hold on, Jake grunted, drawing his hunting knife and reaching up to saw at the rope. The elers’s eyes, bloodshot and bulging, fixed on Jake with a mix of desperation and recognition.
As the last fibers parted, and the rope gave way, both men tumbled to the ground. Jake quickly loosened the noose and helped the man sit up. Easy now, deep breaths. The elder coughed violently, his throat bruised and raw. When he finally spoke, his voice was a ragged whisper. Morrison, the universe has strange humor sending you.
Jake’s brow furrowed as he studied the man’s weathered face. Recognition dawned slowly. Chum Medicine, Chief Chum. 20 years earlier during a brutal campaign against renegade Apaches, Jake had encountered Chum while scouting. Instead of reporting the medicine man’s location to his commanding officer, which would have meant death for the Apaches, Jake had pointed him toward safe passage through army lines.
It was a small act of conscience in a war filled with atrocities, but apparently not forgotten. Water. Chum rasped. Jake retrieved his canteen, helping the elder drink small sips. Who did this? Chumm’s eyes darkened. Men from Prosperity. The new town, the one built by the Iron Horbringer. Jake knew the place. Prosperity had sprung up seemingly overnight, 30 mi east along the planned route of the transcontinental southern.
The newest railroad project slicing across the territory. Financed by Eastern money and political connections, it had transformed from a surveyor’s camp to a burgeoning settlement in less than six months. Why? Jake pressed. Your people have been peaceful. Our land, Chum gestured weakly toward the messes. Sacred ground.
Last month, men came with papers said railroad must go through our valley. Chief Red Horse refused. Yesterday more men came with Governor Haway’s signature. When we still refused, his voice trailed off, gaze sweeping across the carnage. Jake’s jaw tightened. The law doesn’t allow this, even with the governor’s backing.
Law? Chumm laughed bitterly, triggering another coughing fit. What law exists for Apache? Your courts do not hear our voices. Jake couldn’t argue. He’d seen enough frontier justice to know Chumm spoke the truth. If the territorial governor was involved, no local judge would challenge him, especially not for dead Indians.
I’ll take you to Fort Sumner, Jake decided. The army commander there is a fair man. He’ll No. Chumm gripped Jake’s arm with surprising strength. They left me alive for purpose to make example when I am brought to town. They expect me to run to reservation where they will find me.
Then they will hang me proper with witnesses to their justice. The old warriors logic was sound. Jake had seen such strategies before. Then I’ll take you somewhere safe. Mexico maybe. Chumm shook his head. I cannot leave. Not yet. He reached inside his vest with trembling fingers and withdrew a folded piece of antelope hide cured to parchment softness.
This is why our land is wanted, not just for railroad. Jake unfolded the hide to reveal what appeared to be a crude map decorated with symbols he didn’t recognize, except for one. In the corner, barely visible, was a military marking he knew all too well. the Army Corps of Engineers designation for a weapons cache.
“What is this?” Jake asked, though he already suspected the answer. “20 summers ago,” Chumm said. “When your blue coat chiefs fought against our people, they brought a new weapon. Not gun or cannon, something else. It made the air burn, turned warriors skin to water, made blood come from eyes.” Jake’s blood ran cold.
He’d heard rumors during his service whispers of experimental weapons tested against hostile tribes, but had dismissed them as campfire tales. The weapon failed, Chumm continued. Wind changed. Many blue coats also died. Their chiefs buried what remained beneath our sacred caves. Made our people swear to keep others away.
said the ground would be poison for many generations if disturbed. And now the railroad wants to cut through there. Jake concluded grimly. Chumm nodded. Iron Horse will dig deep, unear what should stay buried, kill many more. Jake studied the old medicine man, looking for signs of delusion or confusion, finding none. His instincts honed through decades on the frontier told him Chalum was telling the truth, or at least what he believed was truth.
“I need to get you somewhere safe,” Jake said finally. “Then we can figure out what to do about this.” He helped Chumm to his feet, supporting the elers’s frail frame as they made their way toward Chester. The horse knickered nervously, sensing his rider’s tension. Hold on, Jake said, easing Chumm down beside a fallen log.
Let me check the perimeter before we leave. Make sure whoever did this is really gone. Jake climbed a nearby rise, scanning the horizon through his spy glass. The vast New Mexico landscape stretched empty in all directions except to the northeast, where a dust cloud betrayed movement. riders. At least a dozen moving fast toward the village.
“Damn it,” Jake muttered. He hurried back to Chum. “We’ve got company coming. Looks like they’re returning to make sure the job is finished.” The medicine man’s eyes widened. “They must not find the map. If they know we know about the buried weapons, then they’ll hunt down anyone who might talk.” Jake finished. Can you ride if it means surviving to see justice for my people? Yes.
Jake helped Chumm onto Chester, then swung up behind him. As they prepared to depart, a sharp cry echoed from the rocks beyond the village. Wait. Chumm gripped Jake’s arm. That is a woman’s voice. Before Jake could respond, a figure emerged from the boulders. an Apache woman, tall and lean, with a rifle clutched in her hands.
Unlike the traditional dress of the village women, she wore buckskin pants and a cavalry style jacket over a calico shirt. Her long black hair was tied back with a red band, and her face was stre. She shouted something in Apache, leveling her rifle at Jake. Tell her I’m a friend, Jake urged Chum. But the elder seemed equally surprised by the woman’s appearance. Ayana, he called out.
Ayana, daughter of Swift Fox. The woman Ayana responded in rapid Apache, never lowering her weapon. Her eyes, dark and fierce, remained fixed on Jake. She believes you are with the men who attacked us. Chumm translated. She says to release me or die where you sit. Tell her I’m trying to help you escape, Jake replied, keeping his hands visible.
Those men are coming back. We need to leave now. Chum spoke to Ayana, whose expression shifted from hostility to suspicion to grudging acceptance. She lowered her rifle slightly. She will come with us, Chum said. She does not trust you, but she trusts me. Jake nodded. Fine, but we need to move now. Ayana approached cautiously, her movements betraying both wilderness training and formal education, an unusual combination Jake had rarely seen among the Apache.
She swung up onto Chester behind Chumm, the geling snorting at the additional weight. “Head south,” Chumm directed. “There is a place in the canyons, safe for now.” Jake guided Chester away from the devastated village, keeping to the rocky ground where they’d leave minimal tracks. As they crested a rise, a rifle shot cracked the air, kicking up dirt 20 yards to their right.
They’ve spotted us. Jake dug his heels into Chester’s flanks, urging the horse to greater speed. More shots followed as the distant riders changed course now in clear pursuit. Jake kept Chester moving in a zigzag pattern, using every bit of terrain for cover. The horse, though, burdened with three riders, responded gamely, perhaps sensing the urgency of their flight.
They reached a dry creek bed that snaked between sandstone bluffs, offering temporary concealment. Jake pulled Chester to a halt in the shade of an overhang. “We can’t outrun them,” he said, breathing hard. “Not with three of us on one horse. We need to split up. No. Ayana spoke in English for the first time. Her accent subtle but distinct.
They will catch anyone alone. Jake assessed her quickly, the way she held her rifle, her alert posture, the calculating look in her eyes. This was no ordinary tribal woman. You’ve had training, he observed. Five years with army scouts, she replied coolly. before they decided Indians could not be trusted with guns.
That explained her unusual attire and bearing. During a brief period following the Apache Wars, the army had experimented with recruiting indigenous scouts, men and women alike. The program had been controversial and short-lived. “Then you know we’re outmatched,” Jake said. “1 men against the three of us, and Chumm is in no condition to fight.
” The medicine man had grown increasingly pale. His breathing labored. The trauma of near hanging and the hasty escape were taking their toll on his elderly frame. “I know a place,” Ayana said after a moment. “A cave system, but it means crossing open ground.” Jake checked his ammunition. Six rounds in the revolver, eight in the Winchester, and 20 spare cartridges in his saddle bags.
Not enough for a prolonged engagement, but perhaps sufficient to cover their crossing. “Show me,” he decided. Ayana pointed to a distant messa, separated from their position by a/4 mile of exposed grassland. “There, northern face has hidden entrance.” Jake calculated the risk. Their pursuers were still several minutes behind, having lost sight of them in the creek bed.
If they moved fast, they might make it before being spotted again. Let’s go. They set off, keeping Chester to a trot to avoid exhausting him completely. Jake scanned the terrain constantly, acutely aware of how exposed they were. The mesa loomed closer, its red sandstone face, promising shelter if they could reach it.
300 yd from safety, Jake heard it, the distant thunder of hooves. Their pursuers had found their trail. “Ride,” he urged, slapping Chester’s rump. “I’ll hold them off,” Ayana grabbed his arm. “You will die, maybe,” Jake acknowledged. “But you two will live. Go.” Something passed between them in that moment, a recognition perhaps of shared values despite their different worlds.
Ayana nodded once, taking Chester’s reigns and urging the horse forward with chumm. Jake dismounted, positioning himself behind a boulder with his Winchester braced against the rock. The riders appeared on the horizon. Men in long dusters, wide-brimmed hats, pulled low rifles gleaming in the afternoon sun. Jake drew a deep breath, centered his sights on the lead rider, and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked against his shoulder. 800 yd away. The lead rider tumbled from his saddle. The others scattered, diving for cover. Jake fired twice more, not aiming to hit, but to keep the pursuers pinned down. Each shot bought precious seconds for Ayana and Chumm to reach the mesa. He glimpsed them disappearing around its base, heading for the northern face.
The pursuing riders began returning firebullets, whining off rocks around Jake’s position. He counted seven men now, which meant some had circled around, possibly cutting off his route to the mesa. Crouching low, Jake moved laterally along the boulder line, working his way toward a dry wash that might offer concealment.
A bullet kicked up dust inches from his boot. Another tugged at his sleeve. These weren’t random shots. These men knew their business. Jake dropped into the wash landing hard on his side ribs, protesting the impact. He was too old for this kind of action, but age had granted him something youthful vigor couldn’t match patience.
Instead of running blindly, he pressed himself against the earthn wall and went absolutely still. Above boots, crunched on gravel as two men approached his position. Jake controlled his breathing finger resting lightly on his revolver’s trigger. See anything, Davis? One man called. Nothing. Old bastard slippery. Colonel wants him alive if possible.
Says he might know something. Jake’s ears pricricked at the mention of a colonel. Military involvement complicated matters significantly. “Check down in that wash,” the first man ordered. Jake tensed as footsteps approached the edge above him. A shadow fell across the sand as a man peered over.
Jake’s revolver came up in one fluid motion, the barrel pressing against the man’s chin before he could shout a warning. “Quiet!” Jake whispered. “Or it’ll be the last sound you make.” The man, barely more than a boy with a wispy attempt at a mustache, froze, eyes wide with fear. Davis,” his companion called. “You see something?” Jake pressed the revolver harder against the young man’s throat, giving a slight shake of his head.
“No, nothing here,” Davis managed. “Just shadows.” “Well, come on then. Colonel’s calling us back.” Says the Apache’s trail leads to the mesa. Jake’s grip tightened. They’d spotted Ayana and Chumm after all. You go ahead, Davis replied, voice admirably steady given the circumstances. I want to check one more spot. Footsteps retreated, and Jake pulled the young man down into the wash beside him, revolver now pointed at his chest.
Who’s your colonel? Jake demanded. The young man swallowed hard. Colonel Alexander Blackwood, sir. Railroad security. Jake felt as if he’d been struck. Blackwood from the 20th Massachusetts. Yes, sir. Hero of Gettysburg and Antitum. Though he don’t much like talking about the war. Jake’s mind raced.
Alexander Blackwood had been one of the Union’s most celebrated officers, a tactical genius whose regiment had held the line at Cemetery Ridge when all seemed lost. After the war, he’d served briefly in the regular army before disappearing into civilian life. “What’s Blackwood doing leading an attack on a peaceful Apache village?” Jake demanded.
The young man looked confused. “Attack? We ain’t attacked nobody. We’re pursuing hostile Indians who murdered survey workers.” It was Jake’s turn to be confused. What survey workers? Three men found dead yesterday morning along the railroad route. Arrows in them. Colonel said it was Red Horses people that they’d been threatening the survey crew for weeks. Jake’s jaw tightened.
Those hostile Indians were mostly women and children. I saw their bodies myself. No warrior would leave his family behind to go raiding. Doubt flickered across the young man’s face. But Colonel Blackwood said, “Your colonel lied. Jake cut him off. Or someone lied to him. Either way, innocent people are dead and your men are hunting survivors who had nothing to do with any attack.
” The young man fell silent processing this information. Jake studied him, recognizing the moral confusion in his eyes. He’d seen it often enough in young soldiers. “What’s your name, son?” Jake asked, softening his tone slightly. Samuel Davis, sir. Well, Samuel, you’ve got a choice to make. Either you’re part of murdering innocent people or you’re not.
The young man hesitated, conflict evident in his expression. I I just signed on for the work. Good pay. Colonel Blackwood said we were bringing civilization to the territory. Progress. Progress. Jake echoed bitterly. I’ve seen what progress often means for those in its path. A distant shout interrupted them. The search party regrouping.
Samuel glanced nervously in that direction. They’ll be wondering where I am, he said. Jake made a quick decision. I’m not going to kill you, Samuel, but I can’t let you go back just yet either. He withdrew a length of rawhide from his pocket. Give me your hands. Surprisingly, the young man complied without protest, allowing Jake to bind his wrists.
“What are you going to do with me?” “Take you to see something,” Jake replied, helping him to his feet. “Then you can decide where your loyalties lie.” Jake guided his prisoner toward the mesa, keeping to the cover of the wash as long as possible. When they emerged, the search party was nowhere in sight, likely circling around to the mesa’s northern face, where they’d tracked Ayana and Chum.
“Move quickly,” Jake urged, keeping his revolver trained on Samuel more for show than necessity. The young man seemed genuinely troubled by Jake’s account of the village massacre, his certitude shaken. They reached the mesa’s western edge as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the landscape. Jake scanned the rocky face looking for any sign of Ayana or a hidden entrance.
“Hello,” he called softly. “Ayanna Cho!” For several long moments, there was no response. Then a sliver of darkness appeared in what had seemed solid rock. A narrow crevice barely wide enough for a man to slip through sideways. Ayana’s face appeared in the opening. You survived, she observed, sounding mildly surprised. Her gaze shifted to Samuel.
Who is this? One of Blackwood’s men, Jake explained. He may be useful, and I couldn’t leave him to alert the others. Ayana’s expression hardened. Bring him quickly. Jake pushed Samuel toward the crevice. Go on, and remember, I’m right behind you with a loaded gun. The opening led to a narrow passage that twisted deeper into the mesa, eventually widening into a natural chamber where Chum sat beside a small fire.
The medicine man looked worse than before, his breathing shallow face ashen. He needs a doctor, Jake said, kneeling beside the elder. I am a doctor, Ayana replied. Of both your medicine and ours. She knelt opposite Jake, examining Chum with practiced hands. His throat is damaged from the rope.
There is fluid in his lungs. From a pouch at her waist, she withdrew several packets of herbs and a small bottle of what appeared to be governmentissue Ldinum. The inongruous combination of traditional and western medicine struck Jake again. “You said you were with the army scouts,” he noted as she worked. “5 years,” she confirmed, mixing herbs with water from a skin.
They sent me to their school in Pennsylvania first. Thought they could civilize me, make me useful. I learned their medicine, their language, their ways. Then they decided Indians with education were more dangerous than useful. The bitterness in her voice was palpable. Jake had heard similar stories from other assimilated natives who found themselves rejected by both worlds.
What brought you back to Red Horse’s people? He asked. My father died, she said simply. I came home for his burial. Then the army discontinued the scout program and I had nowhere else to go. She helped Chumm drink the herbal mixture, then administered a few drops of Ldinum for the pain. The elder relaxed slightly as the medicine took effect.
Samuel, still bound, watched this exchange with evident fascination. You speak better English than most white folks I know, he observed. Ayana gave him a cool look. Carile Indian School where they beat the Apache out of children and replace it with your civilization. Samuel had the decency to look embarrassed. I didn’t mean save your breath. She cut him off.
Your people killed my mother today. Your apologies mean nothing. Jake intervened before the situation could escalate. Blackwood’s men are searching the mesa. How safe are we in here? The entrance is well hidden. Ayana replied. And there are other ways out if needed. The real question is what we do now.
Chumm stirred his voice barely audible. The map. They must not find it. Jake withdrew the folded hide from inside his shirt where he’d tucked it for safekeeping. This map shows the location of buried weapons, doesn’t it? experimental weapons the army tested against your people. Ayana’s eyes widened slightly. You know of this.
I’ve heard rumors, Jake admitted. Never wanted to believe them. But if it’s true, and the railroad excavation uncovers these weapons. Many will die, Chum whispered. Not just Apache, everyone within many days ride. Samuel shifted uncomfortably. What kind of weapons? Colonel Blackwood never mentioned any weapons, just that the railroad had to go through this valley because of the terrain.
Said it was the only viable route. There are many routes, Ayana said flatly. But only one with a sacred Apache burial ground that hides America’s shameful secret. Jake studied the map more carefully. The symbols were unfamiliar, but the topographical features were clear enough. the twin maces, a series of caves, and the marking he recognized from his army days.
“If what Chowam says is true, we need to bring this to the proper authorities,” Jake decided. The army commander at Fort Sumner or the federal marshall in Santa Fe. “And who would believe us?” Ayana challenged an old Apache, a half breed scout and a frontier relic against Colonel Blackwood and Governor Haway.
The harsh assessment stung, but Jake couldn’t argue with her logic. In the territories, power and connections mattered more than truth. “Then we need proof,” he said. “Something concrete that can’t be dismissed.” Cham’s hand closed around Jake’s wrist with surprising strength. There is proof. In the sacred cave, remains of soldiers who died testing the weapon.
Their bones still wear blue coats. A chill ran through Jake at the image. How far is this cave? One day’s journey north, Ayana answered. Through difficult country. Samuel cleared his throat. Colonel Blackwood won’t stop looking for you. He’s determined when he sets his mind to something. Why does that not surprise me? Jake muttered.
He’d known men like Blackwood during the war, brilliant, driven, and utterly convinced of the righteousness of their cause, whatever the cost. “We should rest tonight,” Ayana suggested. “Leave before dawn. The sacred caves are our best hope now.” Jake nodded, then turned to Samuel. What about you? I can’t keep you prisoner indefinitely.
The young man looked troubled. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I signed on with Colonel Blackwood because he promised good wages and a chance to be part of something important, building the future. He glanced at Ayana. But if what you say about the village is true, it is true, she said flatly.
Go see for yourself if you doubt. Samuel shook his head. I believe you. No one could fake the kind of pain in your eyes. He straightened his shoulders slightly. Untie me. I want to help. Jake studied him carefully, looking for any sign of deception. Finding none, he cut the rawhide binding the young man’s wrists. “Thank you,” Samuel said, rubbing circulation back into his hands.
So, what’s the plan? Before Jake could answer, a low rumble echoed through the cave, followed by the unmistakable sound of an explosion somewhere outside. “They’re blasting the mesa,” Ayana realized, eyes wide. “Looking for caves.” “We need to move,” Jake said urgently. “Now, is there another way out?” Ayana nodded, already gathering her few possessions. this way.
She led them deeper into the cave system, the passage narrowing until they were forced to proceed single file. The air grew colder, damper, the only light coming from a small torch Ayana had fashioned. Another explosion shook the mesa closer this time, dust and small rocks showering down from the ceiling. “Faster,” Jake urged, supporting Chumm, who was struggling to keep pace.
The passage suddenly opened into a larger chamber with a narrow fissure in the ceiling through which stars were visible. A crude ladder of branches and rawhide led upward. This opens on the mea’s top, Ayana explained. We can descend the far side where they won’t expect us. One by one they climbed the ladder.
Jake going last to help Chumm navigate the difficult ascent. As they emerged onto the mesa’s flat top, the cool night air washed over them, carrying the scent of sage and juniper and gunpowder. Jake froze instinctively, reaching for his revolver. Too late, he realized they had walked into a trap. Standing 20 yards away, illuminated by the moon and several lanterns, stood a tall figure in a Union colonel’s greatcoat.
Despite the warm evening, his silver hair and beard were impeccably trimmed, his posture military straight. Despite his age, flanking him were a dozen armed men rifles aimed at Jake’s group. “Jake Morrison,” the man said, his cultured Boston accent in congruous in the New Mexico wilderness. “It’s been what, 20 years? You look terrible, old friend.
” Jake’s hand moved away from his weapon. There was no point in resistance now. Alexander Blackwood. Wish I could say it’s good to see you. Blackwood smiled thinly. Still the frontier philosopher I see. Though I admit I’m curious why a decorated army scout is helping Apache fugitives. Maybe because they’re innocent people whose village was massacred on your orders, Jake replied evenly.
Blackwood’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Progress requires difficult decisions, Jake. You of all people should understand that. Progress? Jake echoed bitterly. Is that what you call murdering women and children? A muscle twitched in Blackwood’s jaw. You always did have a simplistic view of the world, black and white, good and evil. He gestured to his men.
Secure them gently with the old Apache. He has information we need. As the armed men moved forward, Samuel stepped in front of Ayana and Chumm. Colonel Blackwood. Sir, there’s been a mistake. These people aren’t responsible for the surveyor’s deaths. Blackwood’s gaze settled on the young man. Davis, I was beginning to think we’d lost you.
His eyes narrowed slightly. It appears we have in a manner of speaking. Sir, if you’d just listen enough. Blackwood cut him off. I’m disappointed, Samuel. Your father spoke so highly of your character. A Jake glanced sharply at Samuel, whose face had gone pale at the mention of his father. My father, Samuel whispered.
Indeed, Blackwood replied. Samuel Morrison, though he went by Sam in the army. Jake felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. He stared at the young man, no longer Samuel Davis, but Samuel Morrison, his son. the boy he hadn’t seen in 15 years now, a grown man standing before him. Samuel, his Samuel, turned slowly to face Jake.
Shock and disbelief etched across features that Jake now recognized as a younger version of his own. “Dad,” he whispered. Blackwood’s smile was cold with satisfaction. “Well, this is an unexpected family reunion.” Samuel, you never mentioned your father was the famous scout Jake Morrison. I I didn’t know. Samuel stammered. You told me my father was dead.
Did I? Blackwood raised an eyebrow. A misunderstanding. Surely, though, in my defense, Jake Morrison disappeared from civilization so completely 15 years ago, he might as well have been dead. Jake could barely process what was happening. His son, alive, grown and working for Blackwood of all people. The cosmic joke was almost too perfect.
Samuel, Jake managed his voice with emotion. I looked for you for years. Touching as this is, Blackwood interrupted. We have more pressing matters. The Apache map, if you please. Jake’s hand instinctively moved to his shirt where the map was hidden. Blackwood noticed the gesture and smiled.
“So, you do have it? Excellent. That will make things much simpler. What do you want with it?” Jake demanded. “What’s your interest in old army weapons tests?” Something dangerous flashed in Blackwood’s eyes. “You always were too perceptive for your own good, Jake.” He turned to his men. “Secure them all. We’re returning to prosperity.
As the armed men closed in, Jake locked eyes with his son, seeing confusion, anger, and a lifetime of questions reflected there. 15 years of separation culminating in this absurd, tragic moment. “Samuel,” Jake said urgently, “whatever you’ve been told about me, about what happened. Enough talk,” Blackwood ordered. bind them.
Rough hands seized Jake from behind. As he was forced to his knees, he saw Ayana struggling against two men, her fierce dignity unddeinished. Beside her, Chumm had collapsed the exertion too much for his injured body. The last thing Jake saw before a blow to the head sent him spiraling into darkness was his son’s face.
A perfect blend of Jake’s features and his mother’s eyes watching him with an expression that might have been regret tiptoh. I’ve written part one of traces in the wind following your requirements for a cinematic storytelling style with deep character development and strong historical grounding in the American West.
The story establishes Jake Morrison as our protagonist, a former cavalry scout now living as a solitary frontiersman who discovers the aftermath of an Apache village massacre. The narrative introduces the key characters. Jake Morrison, 58, former army scout struggling with his place in a changing West.
Ayana, a strong educated Apache woman with both traditional and western medical training. Chumm, an Apache medicine man with knowledge of buried experimental weapons. Colonel Alexander Blackwood, the antagonist with a mysterious agenda. Samuel Morrison revealed to be Jake’s longlost son. This first part includes the required strong hook with the massacre discovery establishes Jake’s emotional wounds from his past and ends with a powerful cliffhanger.
the revelation that the young man he briefly held captive is actually his long lost son now working for his enemy. Would you like me to continue with part two, or do you have any feedback or adjustments you’d like me to make to the story? First, Jake awoke to the gentle sway of a wagon and the steady clipclop of horses hooves.
His head throbbed where he’d been struck, and his wrists burned from the rawhide bindings that secured him to the wagon’s side rail. As consciousness fully returned, he took stock of his surroundings without opening his eyes, an old scouts habit that had saved his life more than once. The wagon was moving at a steady pace over relatively smooth terrain, a proper road, not wilderness trail.
The air carried the scent of sage and juniper mixed with cold smoke. Nearby, at least four riders accompanied the wagon, their mounts gates distinct and steady. From the angle of sunlight warming his face, Jake judged it to be midm morning. He’d been unconscious for hours. I know you’re awake, Morrison. Jake opened his eyes to find Alexander Blackwood riding alongside the wagon, straight back to top a magnificent black stallion.
The morning sun glinted off the silver in his beard and the brass buttons of his outdated Union Colonel’s coat, which he still wore like a second skin despite the years since appamatics. “Never could fool you, Alex,” Jake replied, his voice rough from thirst. “Where are we headed? Where are the others?” Blackwood gestured ahead where the silhouette of a town was taking shape on the horizon. Prosperity, my town.
As for your Apache friends, they’re in the wagon behind us. The woman is surprisingly docel when the old man’s safety is at stake. Jake twisted to look back, confirming Blackwood’s words. A second wagon followed, where he could just make out Ayana’s straightbacked figure beside Chumm’s slumped form. and my son.
Jake asked the word still unfamiliar on his tongue. Something like discomfort crossed Blackwood’s aristocratic features. Samuel is riding ahead. He has much to process. You told him I was dead. I suggested you might be Blackwood corrected. The boy arrived in Prosperity 6 months ago looking for work on the railroad.
When he mentioned his father was Jake Morrison, I recognized the name immediately. Told him I’d served with you briefly, that you’d disappeared into Indian country years ago and were presumed dead. Jake’s jaw tightened. Convenient lie. Was it a lie? You vanished, Jake. Walked away from civilization from your responsibilities. Blackwood’s voice carried a note of genuine curiosity.
What happened to you after Sarah died? The Jake Morrison I knew was destined for greater things than becoming a hermit in the wilderness. The mention of his wife’s name sent a familiar pang through Jake’s chest. Sarah’s death changed everything. Samuel was 15 angry at the world. Blamed me for not being there when the fever took her.
He paused, memories flooding back. We argued. He ran away. I spent three years searching for him before I finally gave up. Blackwood nodded thoughtfully and retreated from the world entirely. The great scout who could track anything except his own son. The barb struck home, but Jake refused to show it. What’s your game, Alex? What’s this really about? Not just a railroad.
Blackwood’s expression shifted to something more guarded. progress, Jake. America’s destiny. The same things we fought for in the war. We fought to end slavery and preserve the Union, Jake countered. Not to massacre peaceful tribes. Don’t be naive. We fought to ensure America would become the greatest nation on earth.
Blackwood swept his arm toward the approaching town. Look at what we’re building here. In 5 years, prosperity will be the gateway to the Southwest. In 20 it could rival Denver or even Chicago. As they drew closer, Jake could see prosperity in greater detail. It was unlike any frontier town he’d encountered, organized in a perfect grid with substantial brick and stone buildings instead of the usual hasty wooden structures.
A large railard dominated the eastern approach where a steam locomotive gleamed in the morning sun. Telegraph lines stretched in all directions, and what appeared to be electric lighting fixtures stood along the main street, a rarity, even in eastern cities. “Impressive,” Jake admitted grudgingly. “But built on blood.
” “Built on necessity,” Blackwood corrected. “The Apache were offered fair compensation for relocation. They refused progress, and progress cannot be denied. Progress at any cost isn’t progress at all, Alex. It’s just conquest with a prettier name. Blackwood’s expression hardened. You’ve gone native Morrison, forgotten what civilization means.
He spurred his horse forward. We’ll continue this discussion later after you’ve had time to appreciate what we’re building here. The wagon rolled into prosperity, and Jake was struck by the town’s unusual character. Most frontier settlements grew organically haphazardly, with saloons and brothel alongside general stores and churches.
Prosperity felt designed almost artificial, like a theatrical set built to impress eastern investors. Well-dressed men in business suits mingled with laborers and railroad workers. Ladies in fashionable dresses prominated along wooden sidewalks beneath striped awnings. A three-story hotel of red brick dominated one corner of the main intersection.
A sign proclaiming it the Hathaway House. Yet beneath this veneer of civility, Jake sensed an undercurrent of tension. Armed men patrolled the streets, not typical town marshals, but professional gunmen with military bearing. Shopkeepers eyed them wearily as they passed. And on the town’s outskirts, Jake glimpsed a cluster of shabby tents and leantos, where less fortunate residents apparently dwelled a stark contrast to the prosperity on display in the town center.
The wagon came to a stop before the Hathaway House. Blackwood dismounted and approached, flanked by two guards. “Get him inside,” he ordered. “The governor’s suite.” Jake was cut free from the wagon, but kept in restraints as he was marched into the hotel. The lobby’s opulence was startling polished hardwood brass fixtures and crystal chandeliers that would have seemed excessive even in New York or Boston.
“Welcome to prosperity, Mr. Morrison.” the desk clerk said with practiced cordiality, studiously ignoring Jake’s bound wrists and disheveled appearance. Jake was escorted up two flights of stairs to a corner suite. Inside the luxury continued Persian carpets, mahogany furniture, velvet drapes. Through the windows he could see most of the town laid out below.
The governor stays here when he visits, Blackwood explained, entering behind him. Which is increasingly often as our project progresses. Quite a prison cell, Jake observed. Not a prison, Jake. Consider yourself my guest. Blackwood nodded to one of the guards who cut Jake’s bindings. You’re free to move about the hotel and the town under escort, of course.
I only ask that you keep an open mind about what we’re creating here. Jake rubbed his wrists, eyeing Blackwood suspiciously. And Ayana and Chumm. The old man requires medical attention. He’s being treated by our town doctor. The woman remains with him under guard. Why this charade, Alex? Why not just lock us up properly? Blackwood smiled thinly.
because I want you to understand Jake, to see the vision, perhaps even to join us. He moved to a sideboard and poured two glasses of whiskey, offering one to Jake. We were friends once, brothers in arms. I haven’t forgotten that. Jake accepted the glass, but didn’t drink. We fought on the same side. That doesn’t make us brothers. He set the whiskey aside.
What happened to you, Alex? The Alexander Blackwood I knew believed in honor, in doing what was right, as something flickered in Blackwood’s eyes. Pain perhaps or anger. I still believe in doing what’s right for the nation, for the future. He drained his whiskey in one swallow. Rest. Clean yourself up. We’ll talk again at dinner.
With that, he departed, leaving Jake alone with his thoughts and a stunning view of a town built on blood and ambition. Jake spent the afternoon exploring his gilded cage, testing its boundaries. As promised, he was allowed to move freely through the hotel, though always shadowed by one of Blackwood’s men, professional gunhands, with the cold eyes of killers.
The Hathaway House boasted amenities rarely found west of the Mississippi. hot running water electric lights powered by a small coal plant at the town’s edge. Even a primitive telephone system connecting the hotel to the railroad office and the governor’s territorial headquarters. Jake bathed and shaved, exchanging his trail clothes for new ones provided by the hotel staff, a gesture he found both courteous and unsettling.
Standing before the mirror in a crisp white shirt and black broadcloth suit, he barely recognized himself. The face that stared back was weathered by decades of sun and wind silver threading through his once dark hair and mustache, eyes that had seen too much death, too much betrayal.
A soft knock interrupted his reflection. Opening the door, he found himself face to face with his son. Samuel Morrison stood awkwardly in the hallway, his posture rigid with tension. At 35, he was a man in his prime, tall and broad-shouldered like his father, but with Sarah’s gentle features softening his face. He wore the uniform of a railroad engineer blue jacket with brass buttons, striped waste coat, polished boots.
“May I come in?” he asked stiffly. Jake stepped aside, heart pounding. For 15 years he had imagined this moment, rehearsed what he would say. Now that it had arrived, words failed him. Samuel entered, maintaining a careful distance. His gaze swept the room, avoiding direct eye contact with Jake. “Conel Blackwood suggested we speak before dinner,” he said, voice carefully controlled. to clear the air.
Jake nodded, gesturing to a pair of chairs by the window. They sat facing each other, two strangers connected by blood, but separated by years of absence and misunderstanding. “You look like your mother,” Jake said finally. Samuel’s jaw tightened. “Don’t talk about her.” “Sam.” “It’s Samuel,” he corrected sharply.
Only my friends call me Sam. The rebuke stung, but Jake pressed on. Samuel, then I never stopped looking for you. For 3 years I tracked every lead, followed every rumor. And then what gave up? Decided the wilderness was better company than your own son. I thought you were dead, Jake admitted quietly. Every trail went cold.
Every search ended in disappointment. Eventually, I couldn’t bear the failure anymore. Samuel’s expression remained hard, but something flickered in his eyes. Doubt, perhaps. Mother died because of you. Because you were off playing scout for the army instead of being with your family. I was working, Jake countered, struggling to keep his voice even.
trying to provide for you both. The army paid well for experienced scouts. Mother begged you to take that railroad security job in Denver. Safe, steady work. But no, the great Jake Morrison couldn’t be confined to civilization. It was an old argument, one they’d had many times before Sarah’s death. Jake had indeed turned down a position as security chief for the Denver Pacific, preferring the freedom and higher pay of government contracts.
I made mistakes, Jake acknowledged. Not being there when your mother fell ill is the greatest regret of my life. But I never abandoned you, Samuel. You ran away after you said you were heading back into Apache territory 3 months after we buried her. Samuel’s composure cracked slightly, revealing the old pain beneath.
You chose the wilderness over me, just like you chose it over her. Jake leaned forward, meeting his son’s gaze directly. I chose what I knew, what I was good at. I was a broken man after your mother died, Samuel. I didn’t know how to raise a teenage boy alone. So you ran away to the frontier, and now you’re defending the very people whose lands you used to scout for the army to take. Samuel’s laugh was bitter.
The irony isn’t lost on me. People change, grow, learn from their mistakes. Jake paused, studying his son’s face. What about you working for Blackwood, building a railroad through Apache land? How is that different from what you accused me of? Because we’re bringing civilization, Samuel replied with conviction. Progress, permanent settlements, not just military outposts, schools, hospitals, telegraph lines.
He gestured toward the window where prosperity spread below them. Look at what we’ve built here in just 6 months. This is the future, not endless conflict. Jake recognized the rehearsed quality of the words Blackwood’s vision, not necessarily his sons. At what cost, Samuel, a massacred village experimental weapons buried in sacred ground? Samuel’s brow furrowed.
What weapons Colonel Blackwood never mentioned any weapons. Ask him about the Army Corps of Engineers cash, Jake suggested. Ask him why he really wants that Apache map. Doubt clouded Samuel’s features. You’re trying to turn me against him. He’s been more of a father to me these past six months than you were in 15 years.
The words cut deep, but Jake recognized the defensive loyalty of a young man who’d found a father figure. He’d seen it often enough in young soldiers attached to charismatic officers. Blackwood is using you, son. Whatever he’s building here, it’s not just about progress. Samuel stood abruptly. I’m the chief engineering officer for the transcontinental southern.
I’ve designed bridges and tunnels that will stand for a hundred years. I’m not some naive boy being manipulated. Jake rose as well, maintaining eye contact. Then why did Blackwood lie about me being dead? The question landed like a physical blow. Samuel hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face.
He He said, “You were presumed dead, lost in Apache territory. Did he mention we served together? That we knew each other.” Samuel’s frown deepened. “No,” he said he knew of you by reputation. “Another lie,” Jake said quietly. We weren’t friends, but we weren’t strangers either. He knows exactly who I am and who you are to me.
Before Samuel could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them. One of Blackwood’s men opened it without waiting for a response. Colonel Blackwood requests your presence for dinner, gentlemen. In the private dining room, 20 minutes. Samuel nodded stiffly, then turned back to Jake. This conversation isn’t finished. No, Jake agreed. It’s just beginning.
The private dining room occupied the hotel’s top floor, offering panoramic views of prosperity and the surrounding landscape. A long mahogany table dominated the space set with fine China crystal and silver that would have seemed excessive even in Boston or New York. Alexander Blackwood sat at the head of the table, still in his colonel’s coat, despite the warmth of the evening.
Flanking him were two men Jake didn’t recognize, one in a banker’s suit, the other in the formal attire of a territorial official. Ah, Jake Samuel, right on time. Blackwood gestured to the empty chairs. Please join us, Jake. Allow me to introduce Thomas Whitfield, president of the Southwestern Bank and Trust, and James Harrington, territorial secretary, to Governor Hathaway.
Jake nodded to the men as he took his seat, noting the calculating look in Whitfield’s eyes and the nervous energy radiating from Harrington. “A pleasure, Mr. Morrison,” Whitfield said smoothly. “Conel Blackwood speaks highly of your frontier experience. Does he? Jake replied dryly. How uncharacteristic. Blackwood smiled thinly.
Jake and I have a complicated history, but I’ve always respected his skills, if not always his judgment. Servants appeared with the first course of French soup that seemed absurdly out of place in this frontier setting. Jake ate mechanically, his attention focused on reading the dynamics between the men at the table. I understand you encountered some trouble with hostiles yesterday, Harrington remarked between spoonfuls of soup. Unfortunate business.
Hostiles? Jake repeated, setting down his spoon. You mean the Apache village that was massacred, women and children murdered in cold blood. An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Harrington glanced nervously at Blackwood, who remained impassive. Mr. Morrison Whitfield interjected smoothly.
You must understand that progress inevitably creates displacement. The Apache were offered generous terms for relocation. Their refusal necessitated more direct measures. More direct measures? Jake echoed. Is that what we’re calling slaughter these days? Samuel shifted uncomfortably in his seat but remained silent.
Your sentimentality is misplaced, Jake. Blackwood said. The Apache raid on our survey team left us no choice. Three good men died. What survey team? Jake challenged. I saw no evidence of any attack by Red Hor’s people. Just the aftermath of a massacre. Blackwood’s eyes hardened. Are you calling me a liar, Morrison? I’m suggesting you’ve been misinformed, Jake replied.
carefully aware of the danger in directly challenging Blackwood before his associates. Or perhaps misled by those eager to remove obstacles to your railroad. Whitfield cleared his throat. Gentlemen, perhaps we should focus on the future rather than debating the past. The transcontinental southern represents the greatest opportunity this territory has ever seen.
Indeed, Harrington agreed eagerly. Governor Haway himself has staked his political future on this project. The economic benefits will transform the region. Jake studied the territorial secretary. And the governor’s personal benefits, I understand he’s acquired substantial land holdings along the proposed route.
Harrington flushed. The governor’s investments are a matter of public record and perfectly legal. Legal perhaps, Jake conceded. Ethical is another question entirely. Blackwood intervened smoothly. Jake has always been a moral purist. One of his more charming qualities. He turned to a servant.
Bring the main course and more wine for our guests. As the dinner progressed through several elaborate courses, the conversation shifted to technical aspects of the railroad construction. Samuel, initially quiet, gradually engaged with increasing animation as he described the engineering challenges of crossing the territo’s difficult terrain.
“The bridge across the Rio, Colorado, will be my masterpiece,” he explained, eyes bright with pride. 1,700 ft of steel and stone supporting trains weighing over 200 tons. Nothing like it exists west of the Mississippi. Jake watched his son with a mixture of pride and sadness. Samuel had clearly found his calling in engineering, developing a talent Jake had glimpsed in the boy’s childhood fascination with building and design.
Yet that passion was now being channeled into Blackwood’s ambitions, whatever they might truly be. And the tunnel through Apache Pass, Blackwood prompted. Tell them about that Samuel. Samuel hesitated briefly, glancing at Jake. The tunnel is challenging. The geological surveys indicate unstable rock formations, possible underground water sources, but nothing that can’t be overcome with proper application of dynamite and determination, Blackwood added.
Right, Samuel? Yes, sir. Though the excavation will be more extensive than initially planned. Samuel’s expression grew troubled. The latest surveys suggest we’ll need to dig much deeper than anticipated. Jake caught the significance immediately. How deep? At least 80 ft in some sections, Samuel replied. Far more than standard practice, Blackwood interjected smoothly.
The technical details are hardly dinner conversation. The point is, we’re making remarkable progress despite the local resistance. The meal concluded with brandy and cigars, the conversation drifting to politics, and the territo’s bid for statehood. Throughout, Jake observed the dynamics between Blackwood and his associates.
Whitfield the banker clearly saw himself as an equal partner, while Harrington deferred to Blackwood with almost obsequious respect. As the evening wore on, Jake found his thoughts turning to Ayana and Chumm. Where are my companions being held? He asked during a lull in conversation. Your Apache friends are quite comfortable, Blackwood assured him.
The old man is receiving medical care, and the woman is free to attend him. I’d like to see them. Blackwood studied Jake over the rim of his brandy glass. Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, I thought you might appreciate some time with your son. He stood signaling the end of dinner. Samuel, why not show your father the model of the transcontinental southern? I believe he’ll find it illuminating.
Samuel nodded, though Jake detected reluctance in his posture. Of course, Colonel. As they left the dining room, Witfield pulled Blackwood aside for a private word. Jake paused in the doorway, straining to catch their conversation. “The governor is growing impatient,” Whitfield murmured. He wants assurances the project will meet the October deadline.
The governor will have his railroad, Blackwood replied coldly, and his profits remind him that some matters require delicate handling. And the Apache problem is being addressed permanently. The exchange confirmed Jake’s suspicions. Whatever Blackwood’s true objectives, they involved more than railroad construction and boated ill for the remaining Apache in the territory.
Samuel led Jake to a large room on the hotel’s ground floor that had been converted into a project office. Maps and technical drawings covered the walls, and a massive table dominated the center, bearing a detailed scale model of the railroad’s route through the territory. Impressive,” Jake acknowledged, genuinely moved by the craftsmanship evident in the model.
“Your design,” Samuel nodded, professional pride, briefly, overcoming his emotional reserve. “Every bridge tunnel and grade took me three months to complete.” Jake studied the miniature landscape, recognizing landmarks he’d known for decades. The railroad cut a straight path through terrain he knew to be treacherous, impossible grades, unstable ground, flash flood zones.
Yet in Samuel’s design, these obstacles were overcome with elegant engineering solutions. “You’ve become a fine engineer,” Jake said quietly. “Your mother would be proud.” Something softened in Samuel’s expression. She always encouraged my drawing. Remember the bridge I built across Miller’s Creek when I was 10.
Used nothing but fallen logs and rope. I remember. Jake smiled at the memory. It held both of us. Your mother was terrified we’d both drown, but you insisted it was sound. For a brief moment, the years of separation melted away. Then Samuel’s expression hardened again as he pointed to a section of the model representing Apache Pass.
This is where we’re currently working. The tunnel will connect Prosperity to the eastern markets, reducing travel time by nearly 2 weeks. Jake examined the area, recognizing it as the same region marked on Chumm’s map. This tunnel goes directly beneath sacred Apache grounds. All necessary permissions have been obtained, Samuel replied stiffly.
The governor himself signed the final order. Did Blackwood tell you what’s buried there? Samuel frowned. Mineral deposits. Coal primarily with possible silver veins. Not minerals, son. Weapons. Experimental chemical weapons the army tested and buried 20 years ago. Samuel’s expression shifted from skepticism to concern.
What are you talking about? Before Jake could elaborate. The door opened and Alexander Blackwood entered accompanied by an older man in an army uniform bearing a colonel’s insignia. “Jake Morrison,” Blackwood announced. “Allow me to introduce Colonel William Drummond, Army Cores of Engineers.” The uniformed man stepped forward, studying Jake with cold blue eyes.
Morrison, heard a lot about you over the years. Thought you’d disappeared into the wilderness for good. Jake recognized the name. Drummond had been a young captain during Jake’s scouting days, known for his ruthless efficiency and ambition. Drummond, still building forts in Indian country. Building the future, Morrison.
Something you never understood. Drummond turned to Blackwood. Is this the man who has the Apache map? Blackwood nodded. Indeed, though he’s been reluctant to share it. Jake felt the atmosphere in the room shift. Whatever pretense of hospitality Blackwood had maintained was evaporating rapidly. What’s your interest in a 20-year-old weapons test? Drummond?” Jake asked directly. The colonel’s eyes narrowed.
“So, you do know about Operation Cleansing Wind? I wondered if rumors had reached the scouts.” Samuel looked between the men in confusion. “Weapons test? What weapons test?” Drummond ignored him, focusing on Jake. “Where is the map, Morrison? Save us all some unpleasantness.” I don’t have it on me, Jake replied truthfully.
He’d hidden the antelope hide map in his boot heel before being captured, and it had disappeared during his unconsciousness. And I wouldn’t give it to you if I did. Blackwood sighed. Jake, Jake, still the idealist. Colonel Drummond isn’t interested in using the weapons. Quite the opposite. We need to ensure they’re properly contained during the tunnel excavation.
The lie was smooth practiced, but Jake wasn’t fooled. Is that what you told the governor? That you’re building his railroad over a buried cache of experimental chemical weapons? Doubt flickered across Samuel’s face. Colonel Blackwood, what is he talking about? Blackwood’s expression hardened. Your father has been corrupted by his Apache friends, Samuel, filling his head with superstitious nonsense about sacred grounds.
Not superstition, Jake countered. Truth. The army tested a new weapon against the Apache 20 years ago. It went wrong. Killed their own men along with the intended targets. Instead of admitting the failure, they buried the evidence and the remaining weapons on Apache land. That’s preposterous, Drummond interjected.
The army would never August 1869, Jake interrupted. Bitter Creek Canyon, a unit of the Seventh Cavalry disappeared while pursuing Renegade Apache. Official report blamed an ambush, but there was no ambush. Was there Drummond? The colonel’s face pald slightly. Your threading on dangerous ground, Morrison. The weapon was chemical.
Jake continued watching Samuel’s reaction. Something new from the army’s laboratories back east, designed to incapacitate without bullets. But the wind shifted and the soldiers deploying it were caught in their own trap along with every living thing in that canyon. Samuel turned to Blackwood. Is this true? Of course not. Blackwood scoffed.
But Jake detected uncertainty in his voice. Morrison has clearly spent too much time with his Apache friends. Next he’ll be claiming the government is poisoning the buffalo. The map Morrison Drummond demanded. Now I told you I don’t have it. Drummond nodded to someone behind Jake. Before he could turn, a sharp blow struck the back of his head, sending him sprawling onto the model railroad.
As consciousness faded, he heard Samuel’s voice, distorted, and distant. What are you doing? You said no one would be harmed. Blackwood’s response was cold, detached. Sometimes progress requires difficult decisions, Samuel. Your father will learn that lesson one way or another. Darkness claimed Jake the miniature landscape of his son’s creation, the last thing he saw before unconsciousness took him.
Jake regained consciousness in darkness, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. His head throbbed where he’d been struck, and his limbs felt led and unresponsive. As awareness returned, he registered the cold stone beneath his back, the musty smell of earth and old timber. Not a hotel room, not a jail cell either, underground. He tried to move, finding his wrists and ankles bound with iron shackles.
A match flared nearby, illuminating a weathered face he recognized immediately. Good, you wake. Ayana knelt beside him, her expression taught with concern as she lit a small oil lamp. The weak light revealed their surroundings. A storage cellar beneath some building walls of rough huneed stone shelves lined with canned goods and supplies.
“Where are we?” Jake croked, his throat parched. “Beneath the town hall,” Ayana replied, helping him sit up. “They brought you here 3 hours ago. You were bleeding badly from the head.” Jake touched his temple, feeling the crusty remnants of dried blood and a crude bandage. Your work, she nodded.
They allow me to treat you, Colonel Blackwood says you are more valuable alive. Valuable? Jake echoed bitterly. As what bait leverage against Samuel? Both, perhaps? Ayana offered him water from a tin cup. Your son came earlier while you were unconscious. He argued with the guards, demanded to see you. Something like hope stirred in Jake’s chest. Did they let him in? No.
The colonel’s men said they had orders. She paused, studying Jake’s face. He called you father, not Morrison, not the prisoner. Father. Jake absorbed this information, trying not to read too much into it. Where’s Chumm? Ayana’s expression darkened. Separate cell. His condition worsens. The town doctor gives him morphine, nothing more.
Says an old Indian is not worth wasting medicine. Damn them, Jake muttered, testing his chains. Solid iron anchored deep in the stone floor. No chance of breaking free without tools. What does Blackwood want from us? The map and knowledge of the sacred caves. Ayana’s voice dropped lower. Two men came yesterday.
Armymen in civilian clothes. They spoke of retrieving assets and securing the prototype. When they saw me listening, they switched to speaking German. Jake frowned. German? You’re sure? 5 years at Carile School. They taught us German as well as English. Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile to make us proper Americans. Jake processed this new information.
German-speaking military men involved in a secret weapons recovery would explain Blackwood’s interest and the army’s involvement, but raised more questions than it answered. Have you seen Samuel since they brought me here? Ayana shook her head. Only at the door, arguing with guards. She hesitated.
He looks like you, especially when angry. Despite everything, Jake smiled slightly. His mother always said the same thing. The smile faded as he recalled his last moments of consciousness. Blackwood is lying to him, using him. As your government has used us all, Ayana observed without ranker, simply stating what she saw as fact.
The young see only the promise of the future, not its cost. A key rattled in the lock, and Ayana quickly moved away from Jake, adopting a submissive posture as the door swung open. Colonel William Drummond entered, flanked by two armed guards. “Conscious, I see,” Drummond observed. Good. We have matters to discuss, Morrison.
Don’t recall having much to say to you, Drummond. The colonel smiled thinly. That will change. He turned to Ayana. Leave us. The woman stays, Jake countered. Or I tell you nothing. Drummond considered this, then nodded. She can stay. It makes no difference. He pulled a wooden crate closer and sat regarding Jake with clinical detachment.
“You’ve become a problem, Morrison. You and your Apache friends murdered any more women and children lately, Colonel Drummond didn’t rise to the bait.” “The operation at Red Horses Village was regrettable, but necessary. They were sitting on something they didn’t understand, something vital to national security.
Weapons you tested on them 20 years ago, Jake said. Weapons that failed. Not failed, Drummond corrected, proved too effective, too indiscriminate. He leaned forward. Do you know what we called at Project Pax Americana? Peace through superior weaponry. The ultimate deterrent. What kind of weapon? Jake demanded.
What did you use on those people? Drummond’s expression turned reflective, almost nostalgic. Something revolutionary. A chemical compound that when aerosolized affects the human nervous system, renders combatants unconscious within minutes. No blood, no bullets. Just sleep. But it didn’t work that way, Jake guessed.
Did it? There were unforeseen complications. Drummond’s clinical detachment slipped, revealing something like regret. The compound proved unstable in field conditions. Instead of temporary unconsciousness, it caused hemorrhaging tissue degradation, fatal in most cases. Jake remembered Chumm’s description air that burned skin turning to water blood from the eyes.
You created a poison gas. We created a peacekeeping tool that needed refinement. Drummond corrected sharply. The test subjects were hostiles already sentenced to death for attacks on settlers. The army personnel were acceptable losses in the pursuit of a greater goal. Jake felt sick. The casual dismissal of human lives, both Apache and soldiers, as acceptable losses, epitomized everything he’d grown to hate about the military hierarchy he’d once served.
“And now you want to dig it up,” he said. “After 20 years. Why? Because we’ve solved the stability problem,” Drummond replied, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “The modern version is everything the original promised to be. humane, effective, revolutionary. “Then why do you need the old weapons?” Ayana asked suddenly. “If you have better ones now.
” Drummond glanced at her with surprise, as if he’d forgotten a mere Apache woman could follow complex conversation. “Because the original compound has unique properties, properties we’ve been unable to replicate in the laboratory. We need samples to complete the new formulation. Jake exchanged a glance with Ayana. They both recognized the lie.
Whatever Drummond wanted from the buried cash, it wasn’t just samples for comparison. And Blackwood, Jake asked, what’s his interest in chemical weapons? He’s building a railroad, not fighting a war. Colonel Blackwood is a patriot, Drummond replied. He understands that America’s future depends on maintaining technological superiority over our rivals.
The railroad is merely the public face of a much more significant project. Jake connected the pieces. Prosperity. It’s not just a railroad town. It’s a cover for whatever you’re building. Drummond smiled thinly. Very good. Morrison always were sharp. He stood pacing the small cellar. Prosperity will indeed become the most important military research facility west of the Mississippi, hidden in plain sight, protected by its isolation and the cover of commercial activity.
And the governor, does he know he’s financing a secret weapons program? Governor Haway knows he’s supporting a project vital to national security. The details are compartmentalized. Jake thought of the well-dressed banker at dinner. The nervous territorial secretary hawns in a game much larger than they realized now.
Drummond continued his tone hardening. The map Morrison, where is it? I told Blackwood, I don’t have it. Don’t insult my intelligence. Drummond nodded to one of his guards, who stepped forward menacingly. “We know the Apache Elder gave it to you. We know you had it when you were captured.” Jake shrugged as best he could in his shackles. “Search me, then.
Search the cellar. I don’t have it.” Drummond studied him for a long moment. “Perhaps you need motivation.” He turned to the guards. “Bring in the old man.” Jake’s stomach tightened as the door opened again and two more guards dragged in chum. The medicine men looked at even worse than before.
Face gaunt breathing labored eyes glazed with pain or morphine or both. The map Morrison Drummond repeated or the old man faces interrogation methods left over from the war. Methods I personally found quite effective against Confederate spies. Jake strained against his chains. Fury building. Touch him and I’ll kill you, Drummond. That’s not a threat.
It’s a promise. Brave words from a man in chains. Drummond nodded to one of the guards who produced a wickedl looking knife. Last chance. Stop. The command came from the doorway where Samuel stood breathing hard as if he’d run down the stairs. Colonel Drummond, this wasn’t part of the agreement.
Drummond turned annoyance flashing across his features. Mr. Morrison, this is a military matter. Your presence is neither required nor welcome. This This is my father, Samuel replied, stepping fully into the cellar, and these people have committed no crime that would justify torture. They’re impeding a critical national security operation. Drummond countered.
That’s reason enough. Samuel moved to stand between Drummond and Chum. Colonel Blackwood assured me they would be treated humanely. If that’s changed, I need to reconsider my involvement in this project. Jake watched his son with a mixture of pride and concern. Samuel was showing courage, but also naivity about the men he was dealing with. Drummond’s expression darkened.
Your involvement. You’re an engineer, Morrison. A skilled one, I grant you, but replaceable. Don’t overestimate your importance. I designed every bridge tunnel and switchback on the transcontinental southern. Samuel replied evenly. Without my specifications and calculations, you’ll be months behind schedule, perhaps longer.
A tense silence followed as Drummond assessed the younger Morrison. Finally, he nodded curtly. “Very well, the Apache Elder gets a reprieve for now.” He turned back to Jake. “Think carefully about your position, Morrison.” Colonel Blackwood’s patience has limits, as does mine. With that, Drummond stalked from the cellar, his guards following reluctantly.
One remained posted outside the door. As soon as they were gone, Samuel knelt beside Jake, examining his father’s injuries with genuine concern. They told me you fell. Hit your head on the model. Is that what Blackwood’s calling a pistol whip these days? Jake’s tone was bitter, but seeing his son’s distress, he softened.
I’m all right, Samuel. Heads too hard for lasting damage. Samuel produced a key from his pocket and quickly unlocked Jake’s shackles. I can’t free you completely. They’d know it was me, but at least you can move around the cellar. Jake rubbed his wrists, studying his son’s face. Thank you for stopping Drummond and for this.
Samuel nodded awkwardly, still uncomfortable with their newfound connection. I didn’t sign up for torture and threats. Whatever’s happening here, he trailed off, looking troubled. It’s bigger than a railroad. Jake finished for him. You’re starting to see that now, aren’t you? Instead of answering directly, Samuel turned to Ayana, who was tending to Chumm.
How is he dying? She replied bluntly. Without proper medicine and care, he will not last two more days. Samuel hesitated, then reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather case. Here, medical supplies from the railroad infirmary. Not much, but better than nothing. Ayana accepted the offering with grave dignity. Thank you.
Why help us now? Jake asked quietly. What changed? Samuel met his father’s gaze directly. After you were taken, I confronted Colonel Blackwood about what you said, about the weapons tests, about lying to me regarding who you were. He paused. Conflict evident in his expression. He didn’t deny it, any of it. Said, “Sometimes information must be managed for the greater good.
” Managed, Jake echoed. convenient word for lying. He still believes in the project, Samuel continued. Says it will save more lives than it costs. That sometimes progress demands sacrifice. And what do you believe? Jake challenged gently. Samuel looked away. I don’t know anymore. I believed we were building something great, a connection between east and west, new opportunities for settlement, commerce, education.
He gestured helplessly. Now I learn excavating buried chemical weapons, that the army massacred a village to keep it secret, that the man I’ve respected for months lied to me about my own father. Jake recognized the crisis of faith his son was experiencing, the painful realization that one’s mentors and beliefs might be built on deception.
He’d seen it in young soldiers during the war when idealism collided with brutal reality. The railroad is still your vision, Jake said carefully. The bridges, the tunnels, they’re still your creation. Blackwood and Drummond have corrupted the purpose, not the achievement. Samuel nodded slowly, seeming to draw some comfort from this distinction.
What do you know about these weapons? Really? Jake exchanged glances with Ayana, who gave a slight nod. 20 years ago, the army was developing what they called non-lethal weapons, ways to incapacitate hostile forces without killing. One such weapon was a chemical compound that attacked the nervous system. Poison gas, Samuel said bluntly.
Essentially, yes, though they preferred terms like pacification agent. Jake shifted, easing the stiffness in his joints. They tested it in Bitter Creek Canyon against a band of Apache they’d captured. The wind shifted. The gas affected the soldiers deploying it along with everything else in the canyon, including the company from the Seventh Cavalry that disappeared.
Samuel realized the official report claimed an Apache ambush. Jake nodded. The survivors, mostly officers who’d watched from a safe distance, buried the weapons cache and the bodies in caves sacred to the Apache, threatened the local tribes with extermination if they ever spoke of it. Samuel turned to Ayana.
And your people kept the secret all these years. We became its guardians, she replied. The caves were already sacred places where the spirits of ancestors dwell. After the poison, they became forbidden. Only medicine people like Chum could enter to perform rituals that kept the evil contained. And now Blackwood and Drummond want to dig it up. Samuel concluded grimly.
For what purpose? Drummond claims they’ve solved the stability problem, Jake said. Created a new version that works as originally intended, but they need the original compound to complete it. I don’t believe that, Samuel replied. If they’ve created a new version, why risk excavating unstable chemicals buried for decades? Ayana spoke up, her voice stronger than before. Because they lie.
The weapons they buried were not just gas. There was something else, something worse. Jake turned to her sharply. What do you mean? Chumm told me stories of the testing of metal canisters that spread not just poison mist, but something that lived in the mist. Tiny spirits that entered bodies and remained causing sickness that spread from person to person.
Biological agents, Jake realized with growing horror. They were testing biological weapons alongside the chemical ones. Samuel looked skeptical. diseases as weapons. That’s medieval thinking. Not so medieval, Jake countered. The army experimented with infected blankets during the earlier Indian Wars, and European powers have researched biological warfare for decades.
If true, Samuel said slowly. This goes far beyond anything Colonel Blackwood described. He spoke of bringing civilization progress, not weapons of mass destruction. Blackwood is a true believer, Jake observed, in American supremacy at any cost. The railroad prosperity their just means to an end, creating the infrastructure needed for his real vision.
A soft moan from Chum interrupted their conversation. The old medicine man was stirring his eyes opening with sudden clarity. The white chiefs come, he whispered in Apache, which Ayana quickly translated. Many white chiefs tomorrow. What white chiefs? Jake asked in halting Apache. From the east, Chum replied, his voice strengthening momentarily.
To see the weapons, to give gold for their discovery. Jake exchanged alarmed glances with Samuel. Buyers, he translated for his son. Military officials coming to inspect the recovered weapons tomorrow. Samuel looked shaken. That’s impossible. The tunnel won’t reach the cave system for at least 2 weeks, even with roundthe-clock blasting.
Unless they’ve found another entrance, Jake suggested, or created one. Samuel’s expression shifted as realization dawned. The survey team, the one allegedly attacked by Apache. They weren’t surveying for the railroad at all. They were looking for a direct route to the caves, Jake confirmed. Probably found it, too.
And the Apache village was massacred to eliminate witnesses, Samuel concluded, his voice hollow with horror. along with anyone who might warn others about what was happening. Chumm spoke again, his voice fading. The map shows the true entrance, the safe path. Without it, they will disturb the sleeping death. Jake turned to his son.
Samuel, you need to find that map. It’s not just about stopping Blackwood anymore. It’s about preventing a catastrophe. Where is it? Samuel asked a new determination in his voice. Jake hesitated, then decided to trust his son completely. When they captured us at the mesa, I hid it in my boot heel. A scout trick, but it was gone when I woke up in prosperity.
Your boots were given to the hotel staff for cleaning, Samuel recalled. standard procedure for important guests. Then the map could be anywhere, Jake said with dismay. Not anywhere, Samuel corrected. The hotel employs Apache women from the reservation as laresses and cleaners. If one of them found a hide map in your boot, they would recognize its importance, Ayana finished.
And protect it. A shout from outside the cellar interrupted them, followed by the sound of boots on stairs. Samuel quickly reattached one of Jake’s shackles loose enough to slip free, but appearing secure to casual inspection. I’ll find the map, he promised in a hurried whisper. And I’ll learn more about these visitors tomorrow night.
Be ready. Ready for what? Jake asked. to escape. Samuel straightened as the door opened, revealing one of Blackwood’s guards. “Engineer Morrison,” the guard said gruffly. “Conel Blackwood requires your presence. Important visitors have arrived early.” Samuel nodded, composing his features into a mask of professional detachment.
“Of course, I’ll come at once.” He glanced back at Jake, a silent promise in his eyes, then followed the guard out. As the door closed behind them, Jake turned to Ayana. Can you tend Chumm without me? I need to test these shackles. See what else Samuel might have loosened. Ayana nodded, already applying medicines from Samuel’s kit to Chumm’s wounded throat.
Your son has your heart hidden beneath fear, but still there. Let’s hope he has better judgment than his father,” Jake replied grimly. “Or we’re all dead by sunrise.” He slipped his hand free of the loosened shackle, and began systematically testing the others, preparing for whatever opportunity might come.
Outside night was falling on prosperity, and with it, Jake suspected the last pieces of Blackwood’s plan were moving into place. In the growing darkness, a train whistle sounded not the regular supply train, but a special locomotive arriving under cover of darkness. Visitors from the east coming to see Blackwood’s terrible discovery, coming to purchase weapons that should have remained buried forever.
Time was running out. Night fell over prosperity like a shroud, bringing with it an unnatural silence. No piano music drifted from the saloon. No rockous laughter of railroad workers celebrating payday. Instead, armed men patrolled the streets in pairs, their faces grim in the glow of the newly installed electric lamps.
In the cellar beneath the town hall, Jake worked methodically on his remaining shackles. Samuel had loosened them cleverly, not enough to be noticed during inspection, but enough that Jake could slip free with sufficient effort. His wrists were raw and bleeding by the time the last iron cuff fell away, but he barely registered the pain.
“How is he?” Jake asked, moving to where Ayana tended Chumm. “Fading,” she replied quietly. The medicine your son brought helps with pain, but his body is shutting down. Too much trauma, too little strength remaining. The old medicine man lay on a thin pallet, his breathing shallow and irregular, his eyes once sharp with wisdom and defiance, now stared vacantly at the ceiling.
Jake knelt beside him, speaking softly in broken Apache. Hold on, old friend. Help is coming. Chumm’s gaze shifted slowly to Jake’s face, recognition flickering briefly. The warning, he whispered. Must give warning. The sleeping death wakes. We’ll warn them, Jake promised. All of them. Just stay with us a little longer. A ghost of a smile touched Chaum’s lips.
Death comes when it wishes Morrison. Not before, not after. His hand dry as autumn leaves reached for Jake’s. Promise me. Protect the sacred place. Keep the poison buried. I promise, Jake said, gripping the old man’s hand firmly. Satisfied, Chum closed his eyes, slipping into what might have been sleep or something deeper.
His breathing continued, but barely perceptible now. “He was the last of the old ones,” Ayana said softly. “The last who remembered the time before white men came to our mountains. The last who knew all the old ceremonies.” Jake recognized the grief in her voice, not just for a dying elder, but for a vanishing way of life.
He’d seen it too many times across the frontier, the slow extinguishing of ancient cultures beneath the relentless march of civilization. “Tell me about him,” Jake said, hoping to distract her from their dire circumstances. “How did you come to know him?” Ayana’s expression softened slightly. “Chimm was my grandfather’s brother.
When I returned from the white man’s school, my family was gone dead from the fever that swept through our camp three winters ago. Chum took me in, taught me the old ways I had forgotten. A bitter smile touched her lips. The school had succeeded in its purpose. I returned a stranger to my own people. He helped me remember who I was.
And the army scouts, how did that come about? The reservation agent saw my school papers, said the army needed interpreters and medical assistants who understood both worlds. She shrugged. The pay was good enough to help my people through hard winters. And I thought, she paused, looking away. I thought I could be a bridge between worlds.
Foolish dream. Not foolish, Jake countered. Necessary. The world is changing whether any of us wants it to or not. People who understand both sides will shape what comes next. Ayana studied him thoughtfully. You speak like someone who has also lived between worlds. In a way, Jake acknowledged, never quite belonged with the army, never quite fit in with settlers either.
Too much sympathy for the people we were displacing. He smiled rofully. made me a good scout, but a poor soldier. Their conversation was interrupted by footsteps above heavy purposeful strides crossing the town hall floor. Jake quickly returned to his original position, slipping the loosened shackles back onto his wrists to maintain the illusion of captivity.
The cellar door opened and a guard appeared carrying a tray of food. Behind him came a second man bearing a lantern illuminating a face. Jake recognized James Harrington, the territorial secretary who had dined with them the previous evening. “Leave us,” Harrington instructed the guards, who hesitated briefly before complying.
Once they were gone, Harrington approached Jake, his manner nervous but determined. “Morrison, good to see you conscious. I had feared the worst after hearing of your accident.” Wasn’t much of an accident, Jake replied dryly. Unless Blackwood’s men accidentally pistolhipped me, Harrington winced. Yes, well, matters have escalated beyond what any of us anticipated.
He glanced at Ayana and Chumm, then back to Jake. I don’t have much time. The governor arrives tomorrow morning. With him come military officials from Washington, representatives from foreign governments, and various other interested parties. Interested in buying weapons, Jake surmised. Indeed, Harrington set down the lantern, casting eerie shadows across the cellar.
What began as a railroad expansion has become something far more sinister. Colonel Blackwood speaks of safeguarding America’s future and maintaining military superiority. The governor speaks only of profits. And where do you stand, Mr. Harrington? The territorial secretary straightened his spectacles and nervous habit.
I stand for the law, Mr. Morrison, for proper procedures and accountability. Whatever is happening here has bypassed all normal channels of governance. Bit late for bureaucratic concerns, Jake observed. People are already dead, which is precisely why I’m here. Harrington lowered his voice further. Your son found me an hour ago.
Told me what he’s learned about the buried weapons, the planned demonstration for potential buyers. Jake felt a surge of pride mingled with concern for Samuel’s safety. And you believed him. I’ve suspected something was a miss for weeks. The governor’s sudden interest in this particular railroad route. The unusual military presence.
Colonel Blackwood’s authority to act without oversight. Harrington shook his head. But I had no proof, no specifics until now. What does Samuel want you to do? Provide a distraction. Tomorrow morning, I’m to raise procedural objections during the welcome ceremony for our distinguished visitors. Create confusion by time. Harrington looked doubtful about his chances of success.
Meanwhile, your son has secured means of transportation and weapons for your escape. Jake studied the territorial secretary, searching for signs of deception and finding none. “Either Harrington was sincere in his desire to help, or he was an exceptional actor.” “Why risk your position to help us?” Ayana asked, speaking for the first time since Harrington’s arrival.
The secretary turned to her, seeming surprised to be addressed directly by an Apache woman. Because I’ve read the territorial charter, madam, it guarantees certain protections for all inhabitants, regardless of race or origin. What happened to your village violated not just moral law, but territorial statutes that I myself helped draft.
He straightened his shoulders slightly. I may be a mere functionary, but I believe in the rule of law. Jake nodded slowly. Harrington was that rarest of frontier officials, a genuine believer in the principles of governance rather than merely its opportunities for profit and power. There’s something else you should know, Harrington continued.
The excavation team has reached the outer chamber of the cave system. Colonel Drummond reports they’ve located the weapons cache intact, though accessing it fully will require additional work. Jake and Ayana exchanged alarmed glances. They’re disturbing sacred ground, she said. Ground that has contained the poison for 20 years.
Not just disturbing it, Jake added grimly, planning to extract and demonstrate the weapons, possibly tomorrow for their distinguished visitors. Harrington pald visibly. I knew nothing of demonstrations, only an inspection of the excavation site. How many visitors are expected? Jake demanded. Two dozen, perhaps more.
Military attaches from several European nations, representatives from major industrial concerns, corrupt steel Winchester arms, others. An arms sale, Jake concluded, on American soil with illegal weapons to foreign powers. That’s treason by any definition. Hence my concern, Harrington agreed.
I’ve drafted telegrams to the territorial governor and the War Department, but Blackwood controls the telegraph office. Nothing goes out without his approval. Jake considered their options. If Samuel had indeed arranged transportation and weapons, they might have a chance to escape. But escape alone wouldn’t stop Blackwood’s plan.
They needed to warn others prevent the weapons demonstration exposed the conspiracy. Does my son have the map? Jake asked. Harrington nodded. Retrieved this afternoon from an Apache lawnress who had found it in your boot. He’s memorized the safe route to the sacred caves. Then we need to The cellar door burst open, cutting off Jake’s words. Alexander Blackwood himself stood framed in the doorway flanked by armed guards.
Secretary Harrington, Blackwood said coldly. What a surprise to find you here conducting unauthorized interviews with prisoners. Harrington turned visibly startled but maintaining his composure. Colonel Blackwood, I was ensuring the prisoner’s condition meets territorial standards as is my duty. Your duty? Blackwood echoed with a thin smile.
Always the dedicated civil servant. He stepped into the cellar his bearing as military straight as ever, despite the late hour. And telling them about tomorrow’s visitors, was that also your duty? Harrington pald but stood his ground. Those visitors are representatives of sovereign nations. Their presence should be properly documented through official channels.
The official channels, Mr. Harrington, are precisely what we’re bypassing for reasons of national security. Blackwood turned his attention to Jake. I see you’ve freed yourself from your restraints. Resourceful is always, Morrison. Jake didn’t bother denying it. Games up, Alex. Harrington knows about the weapons. Samuel knows.
By morning, others will too. Others? Blackwood raised an eyebrow. You overestimate your influence, old friend. By morning, our demonstration will be complete, contracts will be signed, and history will be made. He gestured to his guards. Secure them, all three. As the guards moved forward, Jake tensed, preparing to fight despite the hopelessness of their situation.
Three against six in a confined space with Ayana protecting Chumm. The odds were impossible. That won’t be necessary, Colonel. The new voice came from the doorway. Samuel stood there, a cult revolver held steady in his hand, aimed directly at Blackwood’s chest. Samuel,” Blackwood said, surprised, giving way to disappointment.
“I expected better from you, and I from you, Colonel.” Samuel’s voice was steady, his engineers precision evident in the way he held the weapon, not with a gunman’s flare, but with calculated purpose. “Step away from my father. Tell your men to drop their weapons.” For a tense moment, no one moved.
Then Blackwood laughed, a genuine sound of amusement that echoed strangely in the cellar. This is what it’s come to, threatening to shoot me over some Apache prisoners and questionable military research. Over the massacre of innocent people, Samuel corrected. Over illegal weapon sales to foreign powers, over lies to me, to the governor, to everyone involved in this project.
Blackwood’s amusement faded, replaced by something harder. You’re a smart boy, Samuel, too smart to throw away your future over misplaced idealism. The railroad you’ve designed will transform this territory, bring prosperity to thousands. Are you willing to sacrifice all that? Not the railroad, Samuel replied.
Just the weapons program hidden beneath it. Jake watched the exchange with a mixture of pride and fear. His son showed courage, but Blackwood was dangerous, especially when cornered. “The weapons program, as you call it, will ensure American military superiority for the next century.” Blackwood said his voice taking on the cadence of a practiced speech.
“It will prevent wars, not start them, save lives, not end them.” By selling chemical and biological weapons to European powers, Samuel challenged. By unleashing plagues that can’t be controlled once released. Blackwood’s expression darkened. You’ve been listening to Apache superstitions and your father’s frontier paranoia.
The weapons are fully controllable, their effects precisely calibrated like they were 20 years ago, Jake interjected. when they killed your own soldiers along with the Apache test subjects. Regrettable failures in early testing, Blackwood dismissed. Science advances through trial and error. The current formulations are perfect.
Perfect enough to demonstrate tomorrow. Samuel pressed with foreign military observers standing nearby. Are you that confident, Colonel? Something flickered across Blackwood’s face. Doubt perhaps. or calculation. The demonstration will use minimal amounts under controlled conditions. The observers will be at a safe distance.
There is no safe distance, Ayana spoke up from beside Chumm’s pallet. The poison seeps into the ground. The water it remains for generations. My people still cannot hunt in Bitter Creek Canyon. Nothing lives there 20 years later. Blackwood’s jaw tightened with irritation. The opinions of an Apache woman on military science are hardly relevant.
Her opinion on what happened to her people is entirely relevant, Samuel countered. As is my father’s experience as a witness to the original tests. Jake realized his son was stalling keeping Blackwood engaged in debate. But to what end? The guards still had their weapons, though they seemed uncertain whether to use them with their commander, potentially in the line of fire.
The answer came with a commotion from upstairs, shouts, running footsteps, the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh. Blackwood’s head snapped toward the ceiling, his expression darkening further. “What have you done?” he demanded of Samuel. A slow smile spread across Samuel’s face. created a distraction. The Apache workers in prosperity don’t appreciate their people being massacred and imprisoned, especially when someone provides them with weapons and a plan.
As if to confirm his words, gunshots sounded from above, followed by more shouting. Blackwood’s guards looked increasingly nervous, glancing toward the door. You’ve started an uprising, Blackwood said incredulously. In my town against my men. Not an uprising, Samuel corrected. A diversion.
By morning, everyone will know what you’ve been planning. The governor, the army command, the justice department. Blackwood’s composure cracked for the first time since Jake had known him. You fool. Do you think this is a simple case of corruption or overreach? This program has authorization from the highest levels of government.
The president himself has approved the research, not the sale to foreign powers, Harrington interjected, finding his courage. Not the illegal testing on American soil. Not the massacre of civilians to cover it up. Blackwood ignored him, focusing on Samuel. Put down the gun, son. It’s not too late to salvage your career, your future.
The railroad will still need its chief engineer. Whatever happens with the research program. For a moment, Samuel hesitated, and Jake feared his son might waver. Then Samuel shook his head firmly. I’m not your son, Colonel, and I won’t be part of this, no matter how you justify it. Blackwood’s expression hardened into something cold and alien. Then you’ve chosen your side.
Pity. With shocking speed for a man his age, he drew a small daringer from his coat pocket. I had such hopes for you. Several things happened at once. Jake lunged forward, chains forgotten. Samuel fired his shot, going wide as one of the guards tackled him. Blackwood aimed his daringer not at Samuel or Jake, but at Chumm’s motionless form.
Ayana threw herself across the medicine man’s body as Blackwood fired. The small caliber bullet meant for Chumm struck her instead, tearing through her shoulder. she cried out, collapsing beside the elder. “No!” Jake roared, barreling into Blackwood with the full force of his weight and rage. They crashed into the cellar wall, Blackwood’s head striking stone with a sickening crack.
The colonel slumped, dazed, but conscious. The cellar erupted into chaos. Guards grappled with Samuel, trying to disarm him. Harrington cowered in a corner, uselessly shouting for order. Jake seized Blackwood by his immaculate coat, and slammed him against the wall again. “It’s over, Alex,” Jake growled.
“Whatever happens to me, to any of us, your precious project is exposed. By morning, the truth will spread faster than your poison gas ever could.” Blackwood’s eyes focused on Jake’s face, blood trickling from his scalp where it had struck the wall. “You’ve always been shortsighted,” Morrison, unable to see the bigger picture.
Despite his predicament, his voice remained controlled aristocratic. “America needs these weapons. The next century will be decided by technological superiority, not moral posturing. America needs justice, Jake countered. Truth, accountability, not massacres and poison gas sold to the highest bidder. Idealistic nonsense.
Blackwood scoffed. The kind of thinking that would leave us vulnerable to every European power developing the same technologies without our moral compunctions. A gunshot rang out louder than Blackwood’s Daringer had been. One of the guards crumpled, clutching his leg. Samuel stood over him, colt smoking the other guards backing away with raised hands.
Enough talk, Samuel ordered. Father, get Ayana and Chumm. Secretary Harrington, come with us. We’re leaving. Jake kept his grip on Blackwood. What about the colonel? Bring him, Samuel decided. He’s our insurance out of town and our evidence afterward. Jake dragged Blackwood to his feet, keeping the older man’s arms pinned.
“You’re coming with us, Alex. A guest of the Morrison family. You’ll never make it out of prosperity,” Blackwood warned, wincing as Jake twisted his arm for emphasis. “My men control every street, every building.” “Not every street,” Samuel replied with confidence. “Not tonight.” Jake helped Ayana to her feet, her face contorted with pain from the bullet wound.
Can you walk? She nodded grimly, pressing a hand to her bleeding shoulder. What about Chum? Jake checked the medicine man, finding a weak pulse still present. He’s alive barely. I’ll carry him. With Samuel leading the way, gunnaw, they emerged from the cellar into the town hall proper. The building was deserted. Signs of struggle evident overturned furniture papers scattered across the floor.
A broken window letting in the cool night air. “What exactly did you arrange?” Jake asked his son as they moved cautiously toward the exit. “Apache Uprising wasn’t an exaggeration,” Samuel admitted. “Every native worker in Prosperity Lundress’ stable hands kitchen staff has family in the surrounding tribes.” When I told them about Red Horse’s village, showed them the map with its sacred markings, he shrugged.
They were eager to help create a distraction. “You’ve started a war,” Blackwood said accusingly. “No, Colonel. You did that when you ordered the massacre.” Samuel checked the street outside before gesturing them forward. They’ve agreed to focus on property, not people. derailing equipment, disabling the telegraph, blocking roads, anything to delay tomorrow’s demonstration and buyers meeting.
Outside, prosperity was in controlled chaos. Fires burned at the railroad yard where someone had set a supply wagon ablaze. The electric lights along Main Street had gone dark, plunging the town into shadow, broken only by flickering flames and scattered lanterns. Gunshots echoed sporadically more warning fire than actual combat.
This way, Samuel directed, leading them toward the stables behind the hotel. I have horses waiting and supplies. They moved as quickly as possible, Jake carrying Chumm’s limp form while maintaining his grip on Blackwood. Ayana followed, pressing a makeshift bandage to her wounded shoulder. Harington brought up the rear, looking simultaneously terrified and exhilarated by his participation in what amounted to a jailbreak.
As they reached the stable yard, a figure stepped from the shadows blocking their path. Colonel William Drummond stood with legs braced apart, service revolver aimed steadily at Samuel. “That’s far enough,” Drummond announced coldly. “Put down your weapon, Mr. Morrison. Release Colonel Blackwood. Samuel kept his gun trained on Drummond, creating a standoff.
Step aside, Colonel. This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed. It already has, Drummond replied. Your Apache friends have killed two of my men, destroyed equipment worth thousands, threatened a project vital to national security. Your project is illegal, Samuel countered. and it will kill far more than two men if allowed to proceed.
Drummond’s gaze shifted to Blackwood, still in Jake’s grip. Alexander, are you injured? Nothing serious, William. Blackwood’s voice remained steady despite his predicament. Though our young engineer has proven disappointing in his loyalty and his father Drummond’s cold gaze settled on Jake, still fighting the last war, Morrison still clinging to outdated notions of honor in a world that has moved beyond them.
If honor is outdated, Jake replied, then we’ve already lost something more valuable than any weapon could replace. Drummond’s laugh was hollow. Philosophical to the end. Drop Blackwood and the Apache Elder. Perhaps we can discuss terms. No terms, Jake said firmly. We’re leaving with Blackwood. Once we’re safely away and have sent our telegrams to the proper authorities, you can have him back.
Drummond’s finger tightened on the trigger. That’s not acceptable. It’s your only option, Samuel interjected. Kill us and you lose any hope of containing this situation. Let us go and perhaps you can still control the narrative. Blame Blackwood for exceeding his authority. Claim ignorance of the weapons sales.
A calculating look entered Drummond’s eyes. Jake recognized it immediately. the look of a military man assessing tactical options, weighing losses against gains. “You’ve thought this through,” Drummond acknowledged. “But you’ve overlooked one critical factor.” “What’s that?” Samuel asked. “I don’t need all of you alive.
” Drummond’s aim shifted suddenly from Samuel to Ayana, who stood partially exposed at Jake’s side. Before anyone could react, he fired. The bullet struck her cleanly center mass. She staggered, eyes wide with shock, then collapsed to the ground. “No!” Jake roared instinctively, releasing Blackwood to catch her falling form.
It was the opening Drummond needed. He swung his weapon toward Samuel, who stood frozen in horror at Ayana’s shooting. Time seemed to slow for Jake. He saw Drummond’s finger tightening on the trigger, saw Samuel’s shocked expression, saw Blackwood moving to escape. In that frozen moment, Jake made his choice.
Releasing Ayana, he launched himself forward directly into the path of Drummond’s aim. The gunshot cracked like thunder in the stable yard. Jake felt the impact high in his chest, a sledgehammer blow that knocked the breath from his lungs. He stumbled, falling to his knees between Drummond and his son. Father. Samuel’s voice seemed to come from very far away.
Jake tried to respond, but found he couldn’t speak. Warmth spread across his chest, soaking his shirt. He looked down in distant curiosity at the rapidly expanding crimson stain. Samuel fired his colt, the shot catching Drummond in the shoulder, spinning the colonel around. Blackwood, seeing his chance, disappeared into the shadows of the stable.
Jake was aware of Samuel kneeling beside him, pressing something against the wound, speaking urgent words that seemed to blur together. He tried to focus on his son’s face, thinking how much he looked like Sarah in this light. Ayana, Jake managed to gasp. Check Ayana. Samuel glanced toward the Apache woman, his expression grim. She’s alive.
The bullet hit her already wounded shoulder. She’ll need a doctor, but she’ll live. Relief flooded through Jake, followed by a wave of dizziness that threatened to pull him under. Chumm still breathing. Samuel assured him. Father, stay with me. I’m getting you out of here. Jake wanted to tell his son it was too late for that.
That the bullet had found something vital inside him. Instead, he gripped Samuel’s arm with fading strength. The map, he whispered. Take it to Fort Sumner. Captain James McFersonson. He’ll believe you. Stop the demonstration. Samuel nodded, tears tracking down his face. I will. I promise. But you’re coming with me. Jake smiled faintly.
Stubborn like your mother. He coughed, tasting copper. Proud of you, son. Always was. The world began to darken around the edges. Jake felt cold creeping through his limbs, a stark contrast to the burning in his chest. Voices shouted in the distance. Blackwood’s men perhaps, or more Apache workers.
Samuel was lifting him now, the movement sending fresh agony through his wounded chest. Jake tried to tell him to leave to save himself and the others, but no words came. As consciousness began to slip away, Jake’s last thought was of Sarah. her smile, her laugh, the way she’d looked holding infant Samuel in her arms.
He’d spent 15 years believing he’d failed them both. Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally gotten something right. Darkness claimed him. Consciousness returned to Jake Morrison in fragments, the rhythmic creek of wagon wheels, the scent of pine and sage, the murmur of voices nearby. Pain throbbed in his chest with each heartbeat dull and insistent beneath layers of bandages.
He tried to open his eyes, finding even this simple action required monumental effort. He’s waking, someone said a woman’s voice. Ayana. A face appeared above him, features blurred at first, then resolving into his son’s concerned expression. Father, can you hear me? Jake tried to speak, managing only a dry rasp.
Samuel lifted his head gently, bringing a canteen to his lips. The water was cool and sweet, bringing immediate relief to his parched throat. Where, Jake managed after a moment. A patchy pass, Samuel replied. 15 mi west of Prosperity. We’ve been traveling through the night. Jake’s vision cleared further, allowing him to take in his surroundings.
He lay in the back of a wagon sheltered by a canvas cover. Dawn light filtered through the fabric painting everything in soft amber hues. Beside him, Chumm lay motionless, his breathing shallow but steady. You should be dead, Ayana said matterofactly, appearing at Samuel’s side. Her left arm was immobilized in a sling face, drawn with pain but eyes alert.
The bullet passed through your lung missed your heart by an inch. A white doctor would say it’s impossible you survived. And an Apache doctor, Jake asked weakly. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Would say the spirits are not finished with you yet. Jake attempted to sit up immediately, regretting the decision as fiery pain lanced through his chest.
Samuel gently pressed him back down. Easy, his son cautioned. Dr. Matthews says you need complete rest. The bullets out, but you’ve lost a lot of blood. Dr. Matthews, town doctor from Prosperity, Samuel explained. One of the few decent men there. He helped us escape. Treated you and Ayana right in the stable yard while Blackwood’s men were distracted by the fires.
Jake processed this information slowly. his mind still foggy. Blackwood Drummond. Blackwood disappeared during the fighting, Samuel replied grimly. Drummond’s wounded but alive, probably back in prosperity by now, organizing a search party. The weapons demonstration delayed but not cancelled. According to Dr.
Matthews, the buyers and military observers arrived by special train just as we were leaving town. The governor is with them. Jake closed his eyes briefly, gathering his strength. How many men do we have? Samuel hesitated. Six, including us. Two Apache workers from the hotel secretary Harrington and a telegram operator who joined us when he learned what was happening.
Not much of an army, Jake observed. We’re not fighting a war, father. We’re delivering a message. Samuel reached into his coat, withdrawing a familiar piece of antelope hide. The map shows a back entrance to the sacred caves, one the excavation team hasn’t discovered. If we can reach it before Blackwood’s demonstration, we can document everything.
The buried weapons, the remains of the original test victims, the excavation equipment. Evidence, Jake understood. For the governor, for Washington. Exactly. Secretary Harrington has drafted official statements detailing everything he’s witnessed. The telegraph operator has agreed to send them from Fort Sumner once we reach safety.
Jake nodded slowly, impressed by his son’s thoroughess. The engineers’s methodical mind had approached their escape and the gathering of evidence with the same precision he brought to his railroad designs. “You’ve done well, Samuel,” he said quietly. “Better than I could have.” A mix of emotions crossed his son’s face.
Pride, embarrassment, lingering traces of the old anger. I learned planning from you. Remember those hunting trips when I was 10? How you taught me to think three steps ahead. The memory surfaced from the depths of Jake’s mind. Crisp autumn mornings in Colorado, teaching his son to track deer through fallen leaves to anticipate an animals movements to prepare for every contingency.
You were a quick study, Jake recalled. Figured out things I never explicitly taught you. like building that bridge across Miller’s Creek,” Samuel added with the ghost of a smile. “Yes, your mother was terrified it would collapse. But you walked across it first to test it for me.” The shared memory hung between them a fragile bridge of its own, spanning 15 years of absence and misunderstanding.
Before Jake could respond, the wagon lurched to a halt, voices calling out in alarm from ahead. Samuel tensed, reaching for his revolver. “Stay here,” he instructed, then disappeared through the wagon’s rear opening. Ayana moved closer to Jake, her good hand resting on a rifle beside her. “We are being followed,” she said quietly.
Since dawn, Apache scouts from my tribe have been tracking our back trail. Blackwood’s men. She nodded. A large party, 30 riders at least, moving fast. They will catch us before we reach the caves. Jake absorbed this information grimly. With his injury, he would be more hindrance than help in any confrontation. “Help me sit up,” he requested.
Ayana hesitated, then carefully assisted him into a sitting position, propping him against the wagon’s side. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through his chest, but he gritted his teeth against it, needing to see their situation clearly. Through the wagon’s opening, he could make out a narrow trail winding through rocky terrain, a patchy pass, true to its name.
Ahead, the land rose toward the sacred mesa where the caves were located. Behind them stretched the scrub land they’d traversed through the night, and beyond that the route back to prosperity. Samuel returned his expression grave. “Riders coming fast.” “Blackwood?” Jake asked. “Can’t tell yet, but they’re pushing their horses hard.” Samuel glanced at Ayana.
“The caves. How much farther?” “2 miles,” she replied. Up that rise, then through the narrow canyon beyond. Samuel calculated quickly. We’ll never make it. Not with the wagon, not on these trails. He made a swift decision. We need to split up. Father, you stay with Chum and Secretary Harrington. The wagon continues on this trail.
It’s the obvious route they’ll follow. While you do what? Jake demanded, already suspecting the answer. Ayana and I take the map and cut across country. Reach the caves from the back approach she knows. Document everything before Blackwood can stop us or hide the evidence. Jake wanted to object to insist on accompanying them despite his wounds.
But the tactician in him recognized the logic of Samuel’s plan. The wagon would be the decoy drawing pursuit while the smaller party moved undetected to their real objective. Take the telegram operator with you, Jake suggested. If you find proof, he can verify it as an independent witness. Samuel nodded. Good idea, he hesitated, then embraced Jake carefully, mindful of his injuries.
I’ll see you at Fort Sumner 2 days from now. Be careful, son, Jake said, gripping Samuel’s arm. Blackwood’s desperate now. He’ll have nothing to lose. I learned caution from you, too, father. Samuel’s smile was grim but determined. Stay alive. I didn’t find you after 15 years just to lose you again.
With that, he was gone, calling orders to their small band of allies. Through the wagon opening, Jake watched his son help Ayana down. Saw them confer briefly with a nervouslooking young man who must be the telegraph operator, then disappear into the rocky terrain east of the trail. Minutes later, the wagon lurched forward again, continuing along the main path toward the sacred mesa.
Secretary Harrington climbed in back his city clothes, now dustcovered, and rumpled his spectacles slightly a skew on his thin face. “Mr. Morrison,” he greeted Jake. “Good to see you conscious. We were quite concerned.” “What’s our situation?” Jake asked, having no patience for pleasantries. “Direy, I’m afraid.
” Harrington settled himself beside Chumm’s still form, checking the elers’s pulse with surprising gentleness. Our scouts report at least 25 mounted men in pursuit heavily armed. Colonel Blackwood and Colonel Drummond among them. And the governor’s party, the weapons buyers following in carriages according to our information.
The demonstration has been rescheduled for noon today. Harrington removed his spectacles, polishing them nervously on his sleeve. If Samuel and Miss Ayana cannot reach the caves and secure evidence before, then he left the sentence unfinished, but Jake understood the implications. Once the weapons were demonstrated and sales concluded, there would be too many powerful interests invested in keeping the truth buried.
Their window for exposing the conspiracy was closing rapidly. How many rifles do we have? Jake asked. Three plus your revolver, Harrington replied. Though I must confess, I’m not much of a marksman. You don’t need to be, Jake assured him. We just need to buy time. Make enough noise to convince Blackwood we’re the primary threat while Samuel and Ayana reach the caves.
Understanding dawned in Harrington’s eyes. We’re the diversion. Exactly. Jake gestured toward the front of the wagon. Tell our driver to find a defensible position high ground if possible with good visibility and multiple escape routes. And then then we may our stand, Jake said simply. And hope it’s enough.
An hour later they had their position a natural fortress of tumbled boulders a top a rise overlooking the trail to the sacred mesa. The wagon had been concealed in a dry wash nearby Chumm, hidden safely within it. The two Apache workers who had accompanied them from Prosperity took up positions on the flanks while Jake and Harrington occupied the center rifles ready.
Jake’s wound made every movement agony, but he forced himself to focus through the pain. His life, all their lives, depended on delaying Blackwood’s forces long enough for Samuel to complete his mission. They’re coming, Harrington reported, peering through a small brass spy glass. Two dozen riders moving fast. Blackwood and Drummond in the lead.
Jake positioned himself behind a large boulder, bracing his rifle carefully to minimize the strain on his injured chest. Remember, Secretary, we’re not trying to kill them. Just slow them down. Aim for the ground near the horses. make them rear and throw their riders if possible. Harrington nodded nervously, his hands shaking slightly as he prepared his own weapon.
“I’ve never fired at another human being,” he admitted. “With luck, you won’t have to start today,” Jake replied. “But if it comes to it, remember they’re the aggressors here. We’re defending ourselves and the law you’ve sworn to uphold.” This seemed to steady the secretary somewhat. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and took position behind his own cover.
The riders appeared around a bend in the trail, dust billowing behind them. Even at a distance, Jake could make out Blackwood’s distinctive bearing, straight back on his Black Stallion Union Colonel’s coat, still immaculate despite the rigors of the pursuit. Beside him rode Drummond, his right arm in a sling where Samuel’s bullet had struck him.
Wait until they’re within 200 yd, Jake instructed. Then fire at my signal. The distance closed rapidly as the riders pushed their mounts up the incline toward the boulder field. Jake counted down silently, judging speed and trajectory with the experienced eye of a frontier scout. Now, he said quietly. Four rifles cracked almost simultaneously.
Below, horses reared in panic as bullets struck the ground before them. Two riders were thrown, others pulled up sharply to avoid colliding with them. Confusion rippled through the column as men sought cover, uncertain where the ambush had originated. Blackwood’s voice carried clearly in the morning air. Morrison, I know you’re up there.
Show yourself. Jake remained silent, watching as the pursuers regrouped. Blackwood conferred briefly with Drummond, then dispatched riders to circle the position exactly as Jake had anticipated. “They’re trying to flank us,” he told Harrington. “Maintain fire on the main group. Our Apache friends will handle the others.
” Another volley drove the main force back, buying precious minutes. Jake checked his pocket watch nearly 9:00. Samuel and Ayana had been gone 2 hours. If they maintained a good pace across country, they might already be approaching the caves from the hidden route. The standoff continued for another 30 minutes, a strange, almost ritualistic exchange of fire.
With neither side fully committing to assault or retreat, Jake understood Blackwood’s strategy. pinned them down with minimal forces while sending riders ahead to the sacred mesa to secure the caves before Samuel could reach them. What Blackwood couldn’t know was that the traditional entrance, the one his excavation team had been using, wasn’t the only way into the cave system.
The map showed another approach known only to Apache medicine people like Chum. A rider appeared on the ridge behind them. One of the Apache workers Jake had positioned as lookouts. “More coming,” the man reported in broken English. “Many wagons, fine clothes. The governor’s party,” Jake realized. The buyers and military observers arriving for the weapons demonstration.
“The appearance of this new group would force Blackwood’s hand. He couldn’t allow potential customers to witness an armed confrontation with hostiles that he’d claimed were already neutralized. Sure enough, the pattern of fire from below changed, becoming more concentrated, more determined, or they were preparing for a full assault.
Secretary, Jake said, it’s time for you to go. Harrington looked at him in confusion. Go where? To the governor’s party. Take the back trail we passed half a mile back. Intercept them before they reach Blackwood’s men. Understanding dawned in the secretary’s eyes. You want me to warn them? I want you to tell them the truth.
Jake corrected about the weapons, the Apache massacre, all of it. Show them your official statements. Make them listen. They’ll dismiss me as a madman, Harrington objected. or worse, an accomplice to whatever story Blackwood has concocted about us. Then make them delay, Jake insisted. Create procedural objections, demand verification of permits, do whatever bureaucrats do to slow things down.
We just need to buy time until Samuel reaches the caves. Harington hesitated, then nodded decisively. Very well, I’ll do what I can. He extended his hand to Jake. It’s been an honor, Mr. Morrison. Yay. Jake shook the offered hand. The honors mine, secretary. Now go before they cut off your escape route. As Harrington slipped away, Jake turned his attention back to the standoff.
The attacking force was maneuvering into position for a coordinated assault. Professionals following Drummond’s military expertise. They would swarm the boulder field from multiple directions, overwhelming the defenders by sheer numbers. Jake counted his remaining ammunition. Six rifle rounds plus nine in his revolver. Not enough for a prolonged engagement.
Their only hope now was to maintain the illusion of greater strength than they possessed to keep Blackwood’s attention fixed firmly on this position while Samuel completed his mission. afraid to fight Alex? Jake called down, breaking his silence for the first time. Getting cautious in your old age, Blackwood’s voice came back immediately.
Hardly, Jake. Just giving you one last chance to surrender for old times sake. Generous of you, Jake replied, adding a strained laugh. Especially considering you’re about to lose everything. Your weapons program, your railroad contract, your reputation. How will history remember the great Colonel Blackwood? Then the taunt struck home.
Blackwood’s voice hardened. History is written by the victor’s Morrison. A lesson you never learned. Perhaps, Jake conceded. But truth has a way of surviving, doesn’t it? Buried in cave systems, preserved in Apache stories documented by territorial secretaries with inconvenient principles. A long silence followed, and Jake imagined Blackwood realizing the full extent of their plan, the gathering of evidence, the official statements, the multiple avenues through which the truth might emerge, regardless of what happened on this rocky hillside. When
Blackwood spoke again, his voice had changed cooler, more calculating. What do you want, Jake? Really? Not this suicidal last stand. Not some hollow moral victory. “What’s your price?” “My price,” Jake echoed incredulously. “Everyone has one,” Blackwood continued. “Name yours. Moneyland grants a position with the railroad.
Your son’s career restored and advanced. All can be arranged.” Jake thought of the massacred village of Chum, barely clinging to life of Ayana’s fierce dignity despite her wounds and losses. He thought of the buried weapons and the lives they had taken, the lives they might yet claim if Blackwood’s plans succeeded.
“You still don’t understand, do you, Alex?” Jake said finally. “This isn’t about price. It’s about cost. The cost of your kind of progress, the cost of putting ambition above humanity.” “Fosh to the end,” Blackwood replied, echoing Drummond’s earlier assessment. But philosophy won’t save you now. This is your final warning, Morrison.