Florence Henderson gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. Croft's eyes narrowed, revealing genuine interest in them.
“On your land? Are they threatening you? Are they raiding?”
"No," Kora admitted, realizing the foolishness of her own words. "There they are, their leader. He asked me to marry him."
The statement fell into the sudden silence of the shop like a stone in a well. Florence stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. Croft, after a moment of stunned disbelief, let out a short, high-pitched laugh.
"Marry him?" she chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, I will. The heat must be getting to their heads. Or maybe to you, Miss Abernathy."
"It's the truth," Kora insisted, her cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. "They've been there for four days. They're not leaving."
"Then we need the law," Florence said in a trembling, nervous voice. "Sheriff Cain will put them to flight."
Feeling a new, if fragile, sense of purpose, Kora paid for the supplies, loaded them onto Jezebel, and crossed the street to the sheriff's office.
Sheriff Bartholomew Cain was a man in decline, with a drooping mustache and a paunch that sagged the buttons on his shirt. He was polishing a rifle and looked up with tired indifference when Kora entered his small, cluttered office. He retold his story, in a flat, detached voice, omitting no bizarre detail.
Cain listened, leaning back in his chair, his expression impassive. When he was finished, he put down the rifle and let out a long, tired sigh.
"Miss Abernathy," he began in a condescending but patient voice. "Let me get this straight. Seven Churikah warriors, who by all accounts are supposed to be in Mexico with Geronimo's band, are camped on your property. They haven't stolen anything. They haven't harmed you. They haven't fired a shot. They're just sitting there. And their leader, who speaks perfect English, has asked you to marry him. Is that all?"
“Yes,” Kora said through gritted teeth.
Cain took a piece of paper from his desk and examined it. "It says here that Sterling Croft filed another complaint last week. It said, 'You dammed the creek that feeds your spring, cutting off its flow.'"
"That's a lie," Kora retorted. "My spring doesn't feed any streams on his property. He just wants my land."
"Maybe," Cain said, tossing the paper aside. "But here's the thing. I have real problems. Drunks fighting in the saloon, prospectors accusing each other of attacking each other, people like Croft filing official complaints. You just have a story, and a fantastic one at that."
"There's no crime here, Miss Abernathy. There's no law that stops a man from asking a woman to marry him, whoever he is. And there's certainly no law that makes me go riding out into the middle of nowhere and pick a fight with seven Apaches just because you don't like the way they're camping."
“So you’re not going to do anything?” Kora asked, her last glimmer of hope crumbling.
"There's nothing to be done," the sheriff said, picking up his rifle again, his tone dismissive. "My advice is to sell the land to Mr. Croft and move to a safer place, or learn to get along with your new neighbors. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Cora stood still for a moment, injustice burning in her chest. She had come to civilization seeking help and found only derision and bureaucracy. The law was a shield for men like Croft, not for women like her.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked out of the office at a brisk pace, her back straight as a bolt. As she mounted Jezebel, she saw Sterling Croft watching her from the saloon porch, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. He'd been to the sheriff's office before her. She realized he'd poisoned the well, painting her as a liar and a troublemaker.
