Page 73 of Rangers Last Promise

Twenty-three never existed.

Doc moves closer.

“That isn’t Grant’s handwriting.”

“Hampton?” I ask.

“Has to be.”

Sheriff Tate studies the words. “Then he wanted you to see this.”

“Maybe,” Doc says.

“Or he wrote it before he knew he was going to lose the photograph,” Wolf points out.

I look at the missing piece where Captain Miller’s face used to be.

“Why cut Miller out?”

No one answers.

Doc takes the photograph and studies the eight men standing in front of the bullet-scarred wall.

“Eight entered the valley,” he says quietly.

Wolf’s expression changes.

“There were eight of us in the convoy.”

“Seventeen were waiting,” Trigger says from behind us.

We turn.

He stands in the doorway with an ice pack pressed against the side of his head.

“You're supposed to be sitting down,” Sheriff Tate tells him.

“I was. I got bored.”

Wolf points at the ice pack. “You were unconscious ten minutes ago.”

“I got better.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh.

Doc doesn't.

His attention remains on the photograph.

“Were there seventeen enemy fighters in the valley?” I ask.

“No.”

“How many?”

“We never knew.”

“Then what does seventeen mean?”