The Missing Survey

PART 2 — The Map That Could Destroy Him

The following morning, I found Ben Morgan waiting outside the small boardinghouse where I rented a room.

He held two folded maps beneath his arm.

“You’re early,” I said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Usually is when a man has a leaking roof and a stubborn neighbor.”

I frowned.

“I’m not your neighbor.”

“Not yet.”

I shook my head and followed him toward his ranch.

His property sat several miles outside town, surrounded by open grassland and a narrow creek that wound between the hills.

A young ranch hand named Ben’s helper, Thomas, was repairing a fence when we arrived.

“Morning, Mr. Morgan.”

“Morning. Any trouble?”

“Whitcomb’s foreman was asking about Miss Hayes yesterday.”

Ben glanced at me.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.”

I unfolded my father’s old map on the wooden table inside the ranch house.

Three small crosses had been drawn beside the western boundary.

“My father marked every survey this way,” I explained. “He said they were his personal signature.”

Ben placed another map beside mine.

I stared at it.

The same three crosses appeared in exactly the same places.

“This is your family’s survey?”

“My father’s. He kept it after Whitcomb claimed the land.”

I leaned closer.

The two maps showed nearly identical boundaries.

But one important section had been altered.

“Look here,” I whispered. “The creek.”

Ben moved closer.

“What about it?”

“On my father’s map, the western boundary follows the original creek bed. On the county version, the boundary suddenly shifts nearly half a mile east.”

“Which means?”

“Someone changed the survey.”

Ben looked at me.

“And if the original survey still exists, we can prove it.”

My heart began beating faster.

“My father said the county copy had vanished.”

“Then we find the original.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out a small notebook.

“There was a name written inside his old papers. Jonas Pike. He was the county clerk who recorded my father’s survey.”

Ben nodded slowly.

“Pike died three years ago.”

“Then we find whatever records he left behind.”

That afternoon, we rode into town and went straight to the county clerk’s office.

The clerk, an elderly gentleman named Mr. Harlan, looked uncomfortable when I mentioned Survey Number 47.

“That’s an old matter, Miss Hayes.”

“I’m aware.”

He searched through several ledgers before stopping at a dusty book.

“Here it is. Survey Number 47. Signed by Jonas Pike.”

I leaned over the counter.

“Where’s the original?”

Mr. Harlan turned several pages.

His finger stopped beside a short entry.

“Withdrawn.”

I frowned.

“Withdrawn by whom?”

He searched the surrounding pages.

“There’s no withdrawal record.”

Ben stepped closer.

“So somebody removed a public document without filing the proper paperwork?”

The clerk swallowed.

“I can only tell you what the book says.”

“Could you copy that entry for us?” I asked.

He nodded reluctantly.

As he worked, I noticed another line written in faded ink.

A survey packet had been shipped to the territorial office on the same date my father had recorded in his notebook.

But beneath it was a second entry.

Packet returned unopened.

“Why was it returned?” I asked.

Mr. Harlan adjusted his spectacles.

“There isn’t an explanation.”

“Who signed for it?”

He looked at the page again.

Then his face changed.

“Charles Whitcomb’s representative.”

Silence filled the little office.

Ben exchanged a glance with me.

We finally had something.

Not proof of everything, but enough to establish that someone connected to Whitcomb had handled the missing survey.

I requested a certified copy of the entry.

Mr. Harlan hesitated before stamping it.

“Be careful, Miss Hayes. Men with money don’t always enjoy being remembered.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Outside, Ben tucked the papers safely inside his coat.

“You understand what this means?”

“That Whitcomb may have interfered with a public record.”

“And if we find the original?”

“Then we can challenge every boundary he changed.”

For the first time since arriving in Red Creek, I felt hopeful.

But our hope didn’t last long.

As we approached Ben’s ranch, we heard a horse galloping toward us.

Thomas came riding down the trail.

“Mr. Morgan!”

Ben pulled his horse to a stop.

“What happened?”

“Somebody’s broken the western fence. Two rails have been lifted clean out, and Whitcomb’s foreman is claiming your cattle crossed onto his land.”

Ben’s expression darkened.

“Did you see who did it?”

“No. But there were fresh wagon tracks.”

I looked toward the distant creek.

“They’re trying to make us look like trespassers.”

“Or they’re trying to frighten us into stopping.”

Ben dismounted.

“Either way, we aren’t stopping.”

That evening, a carriage arrived at the ranch.

A young woman stepped down.

She wore an elegant cream-colored dress and carried herself like someone accustomed to being obeyed.

I recognized her immediately.

Lucy Whitcomb.

Ben crossed his arms.

“What do you want?”

Lucy looked at me first.

“I came to speak with Miss Hayes.”

“Then speak.”

She hesitated.

“Clara, I owe you an apology.”

I stared at her.

“For which part? The dress?”

Her cheeks turned pink.

“All of it.”

“Why now?”

Lucy lowered her eyes.

“Because my father has ordered me to say things I no longer believe.”

I studied her carefully.

“That sounds like a difficult position.”

“It is. You don’t understand what my father is capable of.”

“Then perhaps you should tell us.”

Lucy glanced toward the darkened road before stepping closer.

“My father knows you’re searching for the missing survey. And he knows about the railway receipt.”

My stomach tightened.

“How?”

“Because he has been looking for that document for years.”

Ben’s expression changed.

“Why?”

Lucy swallowed.

“Because the original survey doesn’t just prove that he stole your father’s land.”

She looked directly at me.

“It proves that the entire western boundary of Whitcomb’s ranch was built on stolen property.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Lucy reached into her handbag and produced a small folded envelope.

“My father kept this hidden in his study. I took it before he discovered what I was doing.”

I opened it carefully.

Inside was a handwritten note bearing Jonas Pike’s signature.

And beneath it, one sentence made my blood run cold:

The original survey is not in the courthouse. It was hidden where the old creek meets the abandoned railway bridge.

Ben looked toward the western hills.

“That bridge hasn’t been used in twenty years.”

I folded the note.

“Then tomorrow morning, we’re going there.”

But Lucy grabbed my wrist.

“Clara, wait.”

Her voice trembled.

“My father already knows someone has found the first clue.”

She looked toward the road.

“And he’s sending men to make sure nobody reaches that bridge alive.”