“No.” Her answer was quick. “The concentration is too high. And the tailings match what you’d see from high-volume extraction, the kind only Vanburgh’s outfit runs.”
Anthony leaned back, letting the words settle. He could hear the faint tick of the wall clock and the soft creak of floorboards from the other room.
“I saw two of Vanburgh’s wagons earlier,” he said slowly. “They weren’t headed to the assay. Straight to the rail. Maybe they’re moving more than just ore.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. “You think they’re using the shipments to cover something?”
“I think they’re too careful to let anyone see much,” Anthony said. “Which means I’ll have to get closer.”
She folded her arms, studying him.
“Closer usually means trouble, Mr. Hawk,” she replied.
“Trouble’s already here,” he said quietly. “If Vanburgh’s poisoning that well, it’s to drive folks off. And I reckon I know which land he’s got his eye on.”
Abigail’s expression shifted. It was hesitation, then resolve. “The land where the encampment sits,” she said.
“That land’s not just important to the tribe,” he said. “My father once told me it was marked in an old deed...Eagle Rock.”
“I’ve heard of it,” she said. “Sacred ground. And valuable, if you believe the rumors about gold veins beneath it.”
“Rumors have a way of drawing men like Vanburgh,” Anthony muttered.
Abigail stepped closer, her voice dropping. “If you mean to confront him, you’ll need more than suspicion and a jar of dirty water,” she said.
“I’ll get proof, ma’am,” he replied.
She hesitated, then reached under the table and brought out another small jar. This one was sealed tight with wax.
“This is from the creek just north of his main shaft,” Abigail said. “Same contaminants. Take it. If anything happens to me, you make sure someone sees it.”
He took the jar, turning it in his hands. “You expect trouble here?”
“Vanburgh’s reach is long,” she said, shrugging. “And he doesn’t like anyone stirring the dust.”
A knock at the front door broke the moment. Abigail glanced toward the sound. “I’ll see to it. Stay here.”
She moved swiftly to the clinic’s front room. Anthony followed quietly, curiosity tightening his chest. The door creaked open again, and a group of rough-looking men stepped inside. Their faces were grim.
Between them, they carried a small boy. His skin was the same copper brown as the first child’s. He was listless, his eyes half-closed, and his breath shallow.
One of the men spoke softly.
“Found him near the creek, Doctor,” he said. “Been gettin’ worse since yesterday.”
Abigail’s face hardened. “Set him down gently,” she ordered.
They lowered the boy onto the bench against the wall. Abigail knelt beside him, checking his pulse and his temperature. Her hands were sure despite the urgency.
Anthony watched, heart tightening. This wasn’t an isolated case. More children, more sickness.
“Fever again,” Abigail said. “Looks like the poisoning is spreading.”
She pulled a cloth from her pocket and dampened it with water from the basin. Gently, she pressed it to the boy’s brow.
Anthony’s gaze drifted to the other waiting families gathered outside. Their faces were etched with worry and fear. So many of them were falling ill.
He swallowed hard. The poison wasn’t just a threat; it was a quiet war on the tribe—one that was happening right here, right now.
