If you are looking for Silas O’Driscoll, you are staring right at him, the grey-bearded man said, holding out a weathered hand on the muddy wooden platform of the Fort Griffin depot.
News of the emergency hearing spread like wildfire across Albany and Fort Griffin. By the time I walked out of Judge Sanford’s office, the courthouse square was already teeming with people. Local ranchers, their faces grim, mingled with railroad laborers, their uniforms grimy with coal dust. A few eager reporters, smelling blood, jostled for position.
Micah Gentry stood on the courthouse steps, a confident smirk plastered on his face. He was surrounded by a small group of merchants and his high-priced railway attorneys, sleek men in expensive suits who looked entirely out of place in this frontier town. Gentry spoke loudly, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.
“This woman is an unprincipled fortune hunter!” he declared, gesturing toward the courthouse door. “Taking advantage of a poor, traumatized boy and a dying old man! She’s no better than a common swindler!”
The crowd buzzed, their eyes turning to the doors. I walked out, my head held high, though my stomach churn churned with nerves. Not a single friendly face met my gaze. Not a supporter, not an ally. I was utterly alone, walking a gauntlet of hostile stares and whispered accusations.
The steps were slick with the remnants of the rain, but I didn’t falter. I climbed them one by one, each step a testament to my resolve. Gentry’s eyes burned into me, a triumphant sneer on his lips. He was sure of his victory. He believed he had already won.
Inside the courtroom, the air was thick with expectation and tension. The benches were packed, bodies pressed together, some craning their necks to get a better view. I spotted Thomas in the back row, huddled in a corner, clutching his slate. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes wide with terror, overwhelmed by the sea of hostile faces surrounding him. I could only offer him a brief, reassuring glance before I took my place alone at the plaintiff’s table.
Gentry’s attorneys, three sharp-suited men, were already at their table, arranging stacks of documents with practiced ease. They exchanged confident smiles. Their client, Micah Gentry, sat beside them, radiating an arrogant composure.
Judge Sanford entered from a side door, his robes rustling softly. He moved to his high bench, his expression solemn. The murmuring died down as he took his seat. He picked up his gavel, his gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd.
The silence was absolute.
He struck the gavel once, a sharp, authoritative crack that reverberated through the room.
“This court is now in session,” Judge Sanford announced, his voice clear and resonant. “The matter of the O’Driscoll homestead will now be heard.”
One of Gentry’s attorneys, a tall man with a severe expression, rose. He smoothed his suit jacket. “Your Honor, we are prepared to present our case.”
The battle had truly begun.
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