Wade’s handwriting shook across the page. At the very top, where Dale’s name had always been, he had written one line: Dale did not do this alone. Beneath it sat a single name, pressed so hard the pen nearly tore the paper. Hank Dawson, the first man through my gate that morning. My stomach dropped.

I looked up. Hank stood twenty feet away, a branding iron glowing in his grip, his face gone gray. “I found a receipt in the glove box of Dale’s old truck last month,” Wade whispered. “I kept quiet until I was sure.” Across the corral, the neighbors slowed and fell silent. Out on the gravel road, the lone pickup finally started its engine, and Hank set down his iron and walked slowly toward me.