Thursday, June 2, 1892
The Jensen Homestead, New Mexico


Abigail looked out the window to see her husband still standing on the porch, leaning against the railing. She finally shook her head and marched outside; planting herself beside Clay as she rested her hands on her hips.

"Would you just go and talk to him already? I hate to see you two like this!"

"...What?" Clay turned to his wife as he furrowed his brow in confusion.

"You and Mark! Something has been off between the two of you since the wedding; things were strained between you all day. And don't pretend you didn't notice that he wasn't there to send us off. I saw you looking for him. I've known for a long time to let the two of you sort out your own differences and not get involved, but until now the longest disagreement you've had hardly lasted two days! And I'm not going to have you continue to sit around here, moping. So will you please just go talk to him?"

"...I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? He's less than a mile down the road!"

"No… he's not."

Abigail looked into her husband's eyes and saw tears beginning to form.

"...Clay, what's happened? What's wrong?"

Clay reached out and pulled his wife close; wrapping his arms around her. "...Mark's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" Abi tried to pull away, but she couldn't. "Clay?"

"He came to me Friday… something had happened. Something I gave my word I wouldn't tell a soul about. Mark left town after the wedding… and he's not coming back."

"But why? How do you know?"

He slowly let go of his wife, eventually pulling an envelope from his back pocket. "...What Mark got himself into… he knew going into it that he might not make it out alive. ...If he wasn't back by today… I… I'm supposed… I'm supposed to take this to Lucas."

Abigail shook her head, suddenly wrapping her arms around him. "No… no it can't be!"

Clay held his wife, pushing back his own tears as she cried into his shoulder. "I keep hoping… hoping I'll wake up and realize this is all a dream… a nightmare."

"How could he do this to us?! To his father? To you?"

"...Because the last person he was worried about, was himself."


Clay dismounted before slowly making his way up the porch steps. He looked around the property, childhood memories filling his mind. Clay's hand had never felt heavier as he lifted it to knock on the door. He waited for a few moments before knocking again, then made his way to the barn.

"Mr. McCain?"

Realizing that no one was home, Clay was tempted to put the letter inside the house and leave. ...But he knew that wasn't the way Mark had wanted things. Mounting up again, the young man headed into town in hopes of finding Lucas McCain.

The blacksmith having told him that the rancher and marshal had just returned to town, Clay made his way down to the jail; hesitating one last time before stepping inside the office.

"I just don't get it, Micah! Almost two days and we still can't find a trace!"

Lucas and Micah stood at the desk where several maps had been laid out.

"...Mr. McCain?"

Micah looked up to see who was standing in the doorway. "Clay, can this wait?"

"...No, it can't. It's about Mark."

At the mention of his son, Lucas whipped around and strode towards the man. "You've seen Mark?"

"...No, not since Sunday. But I… I think this might answer some of your questions."

Lucas took the envelope Clay offered and recognized his son's handwriting in the two letters written: 'Pa'

"Where did you get this?"

Clay looked between the two men, his gaze shifting to the envelope before replying. "...Mark… Mark was helping me finish up on Friday. He… he was acting different… he wasn't himself. ...So I asked him what was wrong. ...He said there was something he had to take care of… and told me to bring this to you today."

"That's all he said?" Lucas demanded.

Trying to honor his friend's last request without lying, Clay answered, "...I'm afraid that's all I can tell you. He didn't want me knowing what was going on."

Lucas tore open the envelope and silently read it to himself.

'Dear Pa,

If you're reading this, I reckon an apology is in order. I'm sorry for disappearing like this; for deceiving you and Micah like I did. But I had to do what was necessary to help someone. I can't explain everything, but what I can say is that I had the opportunity to protect an innocent man. A man who, through no fault of his own, was put in danger as a result of something I did. That is something I'm sure you can understand, and I hope that one day, it is something you can forgive.

I didn't want things to end up like this… but I knew they very well could. With that in mind, I asked Clay to hold onto this for me. He doesn't have any more answers than you do, so please don't go getting upset at him. His only part in this was delivering a letter when I asked him to.

By now I'm sure you're wondering what happened and where I am. I don't even know the answer to those questions yet. But what I can say with certainty is that you don't need to look for me. And what I ask with all sincerity is that you don't look for me. The last thing I want is you wearing yourself out looking for a trail that can't be found. ...There will come a time when we can all be together again.

I love you.

Mark'


Friday, June 3, 1892
North Fork, New Mexico


Micah entered the office to see Lucas sitting at the window. He hesitated before making his way to the stove, offering his friend a cup of coffee.

"No thanks, Micah."

"...Any word?"

The rancher shook his head. "Only a few marshals saying they hadn't seen him."

"...We wired practically every law officer in the territory. I'm sure someone has seen something; give it time."

"Time?" Lucas looked at the marshal before turning to the window again. "Mark may not have time."

Micah walked to the desk and sat down, briefly looking over Mark's letter again. "...This doesn't make sense, Lucas. What could Mark have done to put someone in danger? And why would he do this alone instead of asking one of us for help?"

Lucas shook his head as he let out a heavy sigh. He stood, his long legs striding across the office floor. "...I wish I didn't, but I know why he didn't ask for help. ...Mark wouldn't want either of us to know what was going on if he knew there was any risk involved. He knew we would insist on going along with him, wherever it was he went. ...Keeping us in the dark was his way of protecting us. ...What I can't piece together is how in the world he could have put someone in danger. His whole job revolves around him protecting people."

"Was Clay able to think of anything else that might give us a clue about where he went?"

"Clay was worse off this morning than he was yesterday… it's as if he's in shock." Lucas stopped pacing and again looked down the street. "...Micah, I can't do this. I'm going out there again."

"...I want to find him as much as you do, but Mark said it wouldn't be any use."

"If he didn't know where he was going to end up, how could he have known that?"

Micah stood, apprehensively approaching the rancher. "...Lucas, Mark had a reason for writing what he did. Don't you think he might have asked what he did to protect you from… from what you might find?"

"If you mean to say that Mark didn't want me finding his body, then yes, I'm sure that was his intention. But I refuse to stop looking for my son when there's a chance that he could still be alive!"


Monday, June 6, 1892
San Perres, Mexico


"Mark? ...Mark?"

Mark slowly opened his eyes to see a dark figure standing beside the cage. "Rosaline?"

"The sun will rise soon. You must eat before they come for you; you will work in the mine today."

"Mine?" Mark asked, taking the bowl she offered.

"There is a mine not far from here, where our men seek silver."

"...When was the last time they found silver in there?"

"Small pieces are often found. But there are many stories of a lost cavern… a cavern that has enough silver to feed an entire village for ten years. I am sure this is why they are taking you… and that is why you must be careful. ...We have lost many men in the caves seeking the cavern."

"...Thank you."

"...Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Before you said that Señor Allen's brother killed a man, but you did not say why. What happened?"

Mark took a bite of food as he thought back to that fateful day. "...Allen and his brother, along with other members of a gang of outlaws, took over my town. A marshal… well, a deputy marshal, came to help and Allen… Allen killed him."

"...Deputy marshal?"

"A man from the law."

"But why did he kill him?"

"I wish I could say there was a rational answer. But there isn't. Allen gained nothing by killing that deputy. He just could, so he did."

"I do not understand why Señor Allen would do this to you when his brother was so evil! It is not right!"

"Because Allen is just as bad as his brother was."

"It makes me so angry that he has done this! If he was here I would spit on him!"

Mark quietly chuckled at the woman's temper.

"Why are you laughing? Would you not want to spit on him, too?"

"Oh, believe me, I would want to do much more than that."

"...I am sorry my people have listened to him. If they understood the truth, they would not keep you here."

"...I know."

"I have tried to tell them, but they think you lie. I wish for a way to make them see the truth."

"...Rosaline, do you ever leave here? Do you ever go to another town?"

"No, only men go once a year. They go to the big city to trade our silver. Why do you ask?"

"Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"...I must go, I have chores to do. I will take the bowl tonight."

"Thank you, again."

Just before sunrise, two men approached the cage and ordered Mark out. They went through the same routine of chaining him to the side of the wagon before beginning the short trek. Once they arrived at the entrance of a mine, one of the men gave Mark a long lecture; none of which he understood.

Mark was taken deep into the mine before the men stopped, one handing him a shovel and the other a pickaxe.

"¡Ponte a trabajar!" the older of the two ordered, pointing to a pile of rocks and dirt.

Mark began digging his way through the shaft, hoping his assumptions were right about what he had been told to do.

Hours passed as the two men took turns watching their prisoner from a fairly significant distance. Remember Rosaline's warning that morning, Mark prayed the shaft wouldn't cave in on him.

He steadily worked, trying to do the least amount of damage as possible to his already injured ribs. When the pain became too much, Mark would try to briefly rest; one of the guards yelling at him as soon as they realized he had stopped working.

It was dark when they returned to the entrance of the mine. Mark took in a deep breath, thankful for the fresh air, before suddenly being pushed back towards the wagon.

When he was returned to the cage, Mark found a fresh bowl of beans and rice waiting for him. He ate what he could before exhaustion finally won out and pulled him into a deep sleep.


Tuesday, June 7, 1892
North Fork, New Mexico


"Micah, I don't understand how you could let him do this!"

"What did you expect me to do, Lou? Arrest him for looking for his son?"

"I expected ya ta go with him!"

"I have a job to do, here."

"Mark's your deputy! Your best friend's son; he's practically your grandson! And I don't understand why-"

"That's enough, Lou! I won't have some woman coming in here and telling me my business! Get out before I throw you out!"

Lou stared at Micah for a long moment before finally turning to leave.

"...Lou… wait…"

She hesitated at the door, but didn't turn to face him.

"...I'm sorry, Lou. This…" There were tears in the marshal's voice as he went on. "You are right. Mark is like a grandson to me… he's my deputy, and I… I should have known something was wrong. ...In a way, I feel responsible and I couldn't… I couldn't go out there. The fact of the matter is, Lucas is out there, looking… looking for a body, and I… I can't do it. I can't face finding that boy dead and I… I can't face Lucas."

"...Dead?" Lou turned around. "Micah, how could you say he's dead? We don't know that!"

"He's been gone almost ten days… there hasn't been a trace of him. Mark… he told Clay to deliver that letter Thursday. He wouldn't have asked him to deliver it any sooner than he felt was necessary, because Mark would know what that letter would do to his father. ...If there was a chance, Lou, any chance, I would hold onto that hope until my dying day. ...But Mark is gone, and there's no sense in telling ourselves otherwise."

There were tears in Lou's eyes as she asked, "...But if he was… if he was dead, if… if there… if he was… out there, wouldn't someone have found him by now?"

Micah shook his head. "...There are so many gullies and canyons and ponds around here… he may never be found."

"But-"

Lou was interrupted as the door swung open. She turned to see the tall rancher step inside the office, taking off his hat.

"Lucas! Did you find…"

Lucas shook his head; exhaustion and grief etched onto his face. "Micah," he coarsely began, "Any wires?"

"I'm afraid not, Lucas-boy."

He nodded, quietly slipping back out the door.

"Micah, please!" Lou begged. "Talk to him! He can't carry this on his own and you're the only person he just might listen to!"

The marshal slowly nodded, collecting his hat and leaving the office. He mounted his horse and followed after his friend; catching up with him at the edge of town.

"...Lucas, I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, Micah." Lucas continued to look ahead of him, focusing on the road.

"Yes, I do. ...I should've gone with you, I…"

"You couldn't, because you think he's dead. And I can understand that. I don't want to find his body any more than you do. But I can't accept that he's dead… I won't accept it until… until I see it for myself. So I am going to keep looking for my son, who I have to believe is still alive."

"...Lucas-boy, you're going to wear yourself out. Mark wouldn't want-"

"I DON'T CARE! He is my son, and I am going to find him!"

"...Take a day or two to rest, then. You won't be any good to him if you're falling out of the saddle," Micah encouraged; surprised to see the man nod in agreement.

"I'll be leaving again Thursday. And I won't stand for anyone trying to talk me out of it."

"...I know."

Lucas let out a heavy sigh, finally turning to Micah. "...Are you coming for coffee or staying for supper?"

"Both. ...I reckon you and I have a lot to talk about."

Over the course of the evening, marshal and rancher discussed the grief and guilt they both felt over Mark's disappearance. They again tried to piece things together; still finding themselves at a loss as to what trouble Mark could have gotten himself into.

Reaching for his cup of coffee, a new thought suddenly struck Lucas. "...Micah, have you tried talking to the people in town? Seeing if any of them have been having trouble?"

"No… but as far as I know, besides the rustling business, everything's been going well for folks. The only one that's had any trouble as of late is…"

"Is…?"

Micah slowly looked up at Lucas. "...You."

As the events of the previous weeks started coming back to him, deep creases formed on Lucas's forehead. "Micah, you're not saying… no, Mark wouldn't have…"

"...Have you had any trouble since Mark disappeared?"

Lucas suddenly stood and strode towards the bedroom. Micah followed; watching as the rancher retrieved Mark's letter from his saddle bag and read it over once again.

Lucas slowly sank to the ground, staring at the words his son had written.

'I can't explain everything, but what I can say is that I had the opportunity to protect an innocent man. A man who, through no fault of his own, was put in danger as a result of something I did. That is something I'm sure you can understand, and I hope that one day, it is something you can forgive.'

"...Lucas?"

The rancher thought back to the day the rustlers had been tried, and remembered what his son had said in the barn. 'You were probably right about whoever is responsible for this making their way down to the border. I reckon it's about time I accept that and move on.'

"...Lucas-boy?"

"...I should've listened to him."

"You can't blame yourself for this, the-"

"He tried to tell me," he whispered; tears forming in his eyes. "From the very beginning, he tried to warn me. I chalked it up to a fluke and…"

"Now Lucas, we don't know for sure what happened. There's no way to know any of this is connected."

"...The day of the rustlers' trial, Mark came home from the range and panicked when he couldn't find me. ...The way he was yelling, you would've thought someone had been shot. We talked and just like that… all of a sudden, he seemed to accept that whoever had attacked me was long gone. ...I should've known something was off… it's not like Mark to brush things off like that."

"...What are you saying?"

"...Mark knew what was coming. He calmed down because he realized I would start getting suspicious. ...I should have realized something was wrong; the way he was acting, the things he was saying… I should have known…"

"But what possible danger could Mark have put you in?"

"...I wish I knew, Micah. I wish I knew…"


Friday, June 10, 1892
San Perres, Mexico


The sound of metal striking metal echoed through the darkness as someone began unlocking the cage. Being roused from a deep sleep, Mark sat up and looked around to see that it was still the middle of the night.

"...Hello?"

The door of the cage swung open as a voice answered him. "¡Sal de ahí! ¡Moverse!"

Obeying the command he had grown accustomed to, Mark painfully began crawling out of the cage. He reached the door, a firm hand suddenly grabbing his collar and thrusting him forward. Mark landed with a thud as his head snapped downward and hit the ground.

The young man tried to push himself to his feet; his attempt being countered as a boot caught under his stomach and flipped him onto his back. Mark looked up to see a figure approaching him and defensively raised his hands as the boot again came flying towards him. The pain radiated through his chest and back as he was repeatedly kicked in the ribcage. Mark again attempted to stand, resorting to crawling away before a firm hand took hold of his arm and yanked him to his feet.

"¡Escoria americana!" The man drove his fist into the prisoner's face, knocking him to the ground once again. "¡Vienes aquí y matas a nuestra gente porque piensas que somos inútiles!" Mark gasped for breath as he was again hauled to his feet; another blow to his chest knocking the wind out of him. "¡Eres el inútil! ¡Y voy a hacer pagar por lo que has hecho!"

Mark was again thrown to the ground; the chains around his wrists clanking as he landed. Another shock of pain came over Mark as he felt a hard object fall across his back. He reached out in an attempt to pull himself forward, a boot suddenly coming down on his hand, crushing it.

Over and over again, Mark felt the hard metal of the shovel come down on his body. He did what he could to protect his head, but an unprecedented strike to his abdomen forced his arms to drop, giving his assailant the opportunity for one final blow.