Page 9 of Anthony Hawk

Anthony tipped his hat against the sun and headed toward the livery, already knowing he’d be back at that clinic when the day broke.

The town’s main street was thinning with traffic. A pair of wagons rattled toward the depot, wheels creaking under the load of ore sacks. Anthony’s eyes followed them. Vanburgh’s men, judging by the company brand painted on the sideboards.

They weren’t headed for the assay office, though. They were going toward the rail spur straight out of town. That meant the ore was already spoken for.

The thought gnawed at him as he rode out past the last weathered buildings, dust swirling beneath Spirit’s hooves. The stable boy wouldn’t see his horse today. Not while Anthony still needed her close.

After some time, the clinic appeared on the horizon. The door creaked when he stepped inside. Today, the air smelled faintly of dried sage.

Abigail was bent over a basin with her sleeves rolled up and her hands wet. She looked up, a loose strand of hair brushing her cheek.

“You came early,” she said, drying her hands on a cloth.

“Didn’t sleep much, ma’am,” Anthony said, removing his hat. “You said you had somethin’ to show me.”

“I do.” She gestured toward a side room. “Come in here. But keep your voice down. My patient in the back’s still resting.”

Anthony hesitated a moment, then nodded. “My name’s Anthony, by the way,” he said quietly. “Anthony Hawk.”

She glanced at him, her green eyes steady. “Abigail Monroe. Doctor...as you already know.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Doc Monroe,” Anthony said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Likewise, Mr. Hawk,” she replied.

Anthony followed her into the small examination room. A table stood in the center, draped with a clean cloth. There was a glass jar of cloudy water on it, along with a small paper packet and a worn leather notebook.

“This is from the well near the Indian encampment,” Abigail said, tapping the jar, “where children have been falling ill. I drew it yesterday.”

Anthony stepped closer. “Looks muddy.”

“It’s not mud. Not exactly.” She reached for the paper packet and shook a little of its contents into a shallow dish. The powder shimmered dull gray in the light.

“What’s that?” Anthony asked.

“Residue after boiling the water down,” she said.

Abigail picked up a thin metal probe and nudged the powder.

“Heavy metals,” she added. “Arsenic, lead...and something else I can’t quite identify without better equipment.”

“You’re telling me someone’s been putting this in the water?” Anthony asked, clenching his jaw.

“I’m telling you it’s not natural,” Abigail said calmly. “I’ve been around mining camps long enough to recognize waste runoff when I see it. This isn’t a little dust from a rainstorm. This is deliberate dumping.”

“Mining waste,” Anthony replied. “And there’s only one big mining operation near enough.”

Her gaze held his. “Vanburgh Consolidated.”

The name hung between them like a noose.

Anthony pulled a chair out and sat, elbows on his knees. “You’re certain?”

“Certainty is a luxury I don’t have,” Abigail said. “But I have enough evidence to be suspicious.”

She flipped open the leather notebook quickly. “I’ve been recording symptoms from each patient,” she continued. “Stomach pain, tremors, skin lesions...all consistent with heavy metal poisoning. And they didn’t all drink from the same cup. It’s the well water they share.”

He thumbed the edge of the notebook. “Could it be accidental? Spill from one of the smaller claims upriver?”