The Rio Seco, Thorne had said. Dawson's river.
Peterson — looking south, the blue rumor of mountains — felt sick. He'd met Dawson — once, at the store. A decent man. A limp. A boy.
Decent men, Peterson thought, don't survive men like Thorne.
But rivers — rivers might.
He went back inside — the roar, the dust, the shaking floor — and checked the gauges again.
Eighty-eight.
Falling.
Peterson remembered his first day — eleven years back. Thorne — younger, hungrier — had walked him through the mill and said: "This is the future, Peterson. Copper for a nation going electric."
Electric. The word had thrilled him.
Now — the gauges falling, the men coughing — the future felt thin.
A young mucker — nineteen, new from Kansas — stopped him. "Sir? Is it true? The creek's — "
"Back to work, son." Peterson — gentle, firm. "Worry's my job."
The boy went. Peterson — watching — felt old.
The company doctor — paid by Thorne, like everything — saw the coughers on Thursdays. Prescribed — rest. Rest the men couldn't afford. Scrip didn't stretch to rest.
Peterson — checking the tally, the ore waiting — did the math no superintendent wants to do.
No water — no stamps. No stamps — no pay. No pay — no town.
He thought about Dawson's river — year-round, snowmelt, singing. Enough for all, if shared.
Shared. Thorne didn't share. Thorne took.
Peterson — forty, the mill, the men — looked south once more. Then went inside — the roar swallowing him — and prayed, in his way, for rain.
Or mercy. Whichever came first.
The whistle blew — shift end — and Thorne's carriage rolled through the gate. Silver hair. Windows up. The men — stepping aside, hats off — watched it pass.
Peterson — saluting, automatic — caught Thorne's eye. Cold. Measuring. Already counting Peterson among the costs.
Later — the office, the door closed — Thorne said: "The river, Peterson. Status."
"Dawson refused, sir. Ten thousand."
"Sunday," Thorne said — quiet. "He'll come round by Sunday."
Peterson — nodding, the lie tasting like dust — wondered what Sunday would cost.
Not him. Please — not him.
Outside — the stamps pounding, the creek trickling — the mill devoured itself, day by day, waiting for water that wasn't theirs.
Chapter 3 — The Offer
Reed went to the mill on Thursday — because refusing would be rude, and Reed Dawson's mother had raised him polite, even to thieves.
Copper Flats was a company town — the store, the saloon, the houses, all Thorne's. The mill pounded — the ground shaking, the air thick with dust. Reed tied his horse and walked into the office like a man walking into a trap he'd chosen.
Thorne — silver hair, the gravel-honey voice — rose. Smiled.
"Mr. Dawson. Thank you for coming." He gestured at the chair — leather, expensive. "Whiskey?"
"No."
"Straight to it, then." Thorne sat — steepled his fingers. "I want your water, Mr. Dawson."
"My water."
"The Rio Seco." Thorne's smile didn't waver. "I'll pay five thousand dollars. For the diversion rights."
Reed — very still — looked at the man. Five thousand. More than the farm was worth. Enough to —
"No," Reed said.
Thorne's smile flickered. "Mr. Dawson. Be reasonable. You're forty-six. One boy. Eighty acres." He leaned forward. "Five thousand is generous."
"It's not for sale."
"Ten thousand." Thorne's voice went soft — the softness of a sheath. "That's retirement, Mr. Dawson. Comfort."
Reed stood — slow, the limp pronounced.
"Mr. Thorne," he said evenly. "That river waters my farm. And Paloma. Two hundred people." He met the gray eyes. "You want to dry them up for your mill."
"Progress, Mr. Dawson." Thorne stood — smooth. "The territory needs copper."
"The territory needs water more."
They looked at each other — the pounding of the stamps, the dust in the air.
"Sunday," Thorne said finally. "I'll give you till Sunday."
"My answer won't change."
"We'll see." Thorne walked to the window — the south, the river. "Mr. Dawson? That river — it's the only water for forty miles." He turned. "You know what that makes it?"
"Ours," Reed said — and walked out.
He rode home — fast, the dust behind him — and found Ned at the headgate, white-faced.
"Mr. Dawson! Riders! Company men! They were — they were measuring!"
Reed — dismounting, the limp forgotten — stared at the fresh survey stakes along the riverbank.
Measuring.
Sunday, Thorne had said.
Three days.
Let him come, Reed thought — the rifle from the saddle, the old soldier waking.
Let him try.
Reed rode home slow — the dust, the heat lifting — and stopped where the stakes stood.
Fresh pine. Driven deep. Each marked — T.C.M., the letters burned neat. Thorne Consolidated Mining.
Measuring. Claiming. As if letters on pine could own a river.
Reed dismounted — the limp, the old soldier's knees — and pulled the nearest stake. It came hard. Deep. Meant.
He held it — turning it in his hands — and thought about Antietam. About men who planted flags and called it ownership. About how little a flag had meant when the shooting started.
You want it? he thought — looking north, the mill town beyond the horizon. Come take it.
No. Not yet. Harriet had said Sunday. Hold till Sunday.
He drove the stake back — harder, deeper — almost vicious. Let them read that.
Ned was at the headgate when Reed rode in — white-faced, the shotgun too big for him, standing guard like a soldier.