THE GRAVE WITHOUT A BODY
“Your father did not die in the mountains.”

Those were the first words Tocho spoke directly to Maren.

And they were spoken while twelve armed men waited outside the camp.

Maren stared at him.

His voice was low, measured, and surprisingly fluent in English.

For hours, she had believed he could barely speak her language.

Now he stood before her with her father’s silver button around his wrist.

“What did you say?”

Tocho glanced toward the entrance.

“There is no time.”

“Tell me!”

He stepped closer.

“Your father was taken alive.”

Maren’s knees weakened.

Fourteen years.

For fourteen years, she had believed Thomas Calloway was buried beneath a lonely wooden cross somewhere west of the Pecos River.

Her mother had received a letter.

A military officer had confirmed the death.

Silas had even taken them to the grave.

Maren remembered laying wildflowers beside the cross.

She remembered crying until she could barely breathe.

And now this stranger was telling her that everything had been a lie.

Outside, Jed Cole shouted again.

“Last warning!”

Tocho turned toward Ituha.

The older woman nodded.

Then she pulled a small knife from beneath her blanket and sliced open the stitching of the red cloth.

A narrow piece of yellowed parchment slipped into her hand.

Maren recognized the handwriting.

Her father’s.

Ituha handed it to her.

The parchment contained a rough map, three names, and a date.

October 17, 1871.

Beneath the date, her father had written:

“If they find the ledger, they will destroy everyone who helped me.”

Maren looked up.

“What ledger?”

Tocho answered.

“The one your uncle has been trying to find for fourteen years.”

Before she could ask another question, a young Apache scout rushed inside.

He spoke urgently.

Tocho listened, then turned toward Maren.

“They are moving around the eastern ridge.”

“Are they coming for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Tocho hesitated.

Then he said something that made her heart hammer.

“Because Jed Cole is not the man giving the orders.”

A second gunshot shattered the silence.

A horse fell somewhere outside.

Children began crying.

Tocho took Maren’s hand.

It was the first time he had touched her since braiding her hair.

“Come.”

He led her through the back of the lodge and toward a narrow passage between two sandstone walls.

Ituha followed with a leather bundle.

Three other women guided the children toward a hidden ravine.

The camp was not preparing to surrender.

It was preparing to survive.

At the entrance to the passage, Maren stopped.

“Why are you helping me?”

Tocho looked back.

“Because your father helped my family when no one else would.”

“What happened to him?”

Tocho’s jaw tightened.

“He discovered that men wearing American military uniforms were stealing government supplies and selling weapons through a private trading company.”

Maren stared at him.

“Silas?”

Tocho nodded.

“Your uncle kept the accounts.”

“And Jed?”

“His father helped move the weapons.”

Maren felt sick.

Her father had disappeared after accusing powerful men of corruption.

Silas had inherited the farm.

Jed Cole’s family had become wealthy.

And everyone who questioned the story had eventually left the territory.

“But why do they want me now?”

Tocho reached into his shirt and withdrew a small brass key.

“Your mother kept something hidden.”

Maren shook her head.

“She never told me.”

“She was trying to protect you.”

Suddenly, a rider appeared at the far end of the ravine.

Tocho pushed Maren behind a boulder.

A rifle cracked.

Stone exploded beside his shoulder.

Tocho returned fire.

The rider disappeared.

But another emerged from the shadows.

And another.

They were surrounded.

Tocho seized Maren’s wrist and pulled her toward a narrow ledge overlooking the river.

Below them, black water rushed between the rocks.

“We jump,” he said.

Maren looked down.

It was at least twenty feet.

“I can’t!”

“You can.”

“I’m sick!”

“I know.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Then leave me.”

For the first time, anger flashed across Tocho’s face.

“Never ask me to do that again.”

A bullet struck the rock above them.

Tocho wrapped one arm around her waist.

Then they jumped.

The river swallowed them.

Cold water slammed into Maren’s chest.

She lost her breath.

Her bonnet disappeared.

The current dragged her beneath the surface.

For one terrifying moment, she saw nothing but darkness.

Then Tocho caught her.

He pulled her toward the bank, fighting the current until they reached a shelf of wet stone.

Maren collapsed, coughing violently.

Blood spotted her sleeve.

Tocho knelt beside her.

His expression changed when he saw it.

“You need a doctor.”

Maren tried to smile.

“That may be difficult.”

He removed his outer shirt and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Then he looked toward the distant mountains.

“There is someone who can help.”

“Who?”

“A man who owes your father his life.”

They traveled through the night.

By sunrise, they reached an abandoned mission surrounded by cottonwood trees.

A single horse stood outside.

Smoke rose from the chimney.

Tocho knocked three times.

The door opened.

A white-haired man stood inside, holding a lantern.

His eyes moved from Tocho to Maren.

Then the lantern slipped from his hand.

It struck the floor with a crash.

The man staggered backward.

“No,” he whispered.

Maren stared at him.

“Do I know you?”

The old man began to cry.

“Your mother told me you were gone.”

Maren’s blood turned cold.

“What?”

The man looked directly at her scar.

Then he whispered:

“Maren, I was there the night your father disappeared.”

He reached beneath his coat and withdrew a faded photograph.

In it stood Thomas Calloway.

Silas Calloway.

And a third man.

A man Maren recognized from the wanted posters hanging in every town along the border.

Colonel Nathaniel Voss.

The territorial officer who had signed her father’s death certificate.

But there was something even more disturbing about the photograph.

Standing beside the colonel was a young boy.

A boy with two long black braids.

Tocho.

And beneath the photograph, in her father’s handwriting, were five words.

“Never let them find my son.”

Read Part 3: Click here.