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.
The courtroom erupted into a chaotic roar of murmurs and shouts. People surged forward, some congratulating me, others shaking their heads in disbelief at Gentry’s audacity. He slammed his leather briefcase shut on the table, the sharp crack echoing above the din. His face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes fixed on me.
Judge Sanford struck his gavel repeatedly, trying to restore order, but the courtroom had become a beehive of activity. Thomas, still in the back, slowly rose, his gaze finding mine. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
I moved through the crowd, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and triumph. As I stepped out onto the rain-soaked porch of the courthouse, the twilight deepened. The crowd began to disperse into the gloom, their voices fading into the evening air.
Micah Gentry was waiting for me. He stood leaning against a wooden pillar, his expensive suit still impeccable despite the day’s events. He straightened as I approached, his gaze unwavering.
“You may have won this skirmish, Miss Higgins,” he said, his voice low and controlled, devoid of the earlier bluster. “A lucky draw in a backward county court.”
He took a step closer. “But this is far from over. The Texas & Pacific Railway has endless capital. Our corporate lawyers will drag this land title through federal appeals for the next decade. You will spend every cent you have, every waking moment, fighting paper and bureaucracy. And we will simply outlast you.”
He smiled, a chilling, humorless expression. “You will starve on that land, Miss Higgins. Or you’ll sell it to us for a penny on the dollar, just to put food on Thomas’s table.”
His words were a cold shower, dousing the fire of my victory. He was right. This wasn’t a clean victory. It was merely the first battle in a war I had no resources to fight.
I looked around. Elihu Claggett was nowhere to be seen. I scanned the dispersing crowd, then saw a flash of his dark suit disappearing down a narrow back alley, his portly figure hurrying away. He was fleeing the county, escaping before county deputies could question him further about his Baltimore warrants. Justice, in his case, would be a matter for another jurisdiction, another day.
Thomas emerged from the courthouse, his slate in hand. He looked at me, then at Gentry, a flicker of fear still in his eyes.
“We have the court order,” I told him, holding up the crumpled document. “The ranch is ours. For now.”
We climbed back into our mud-splattered wagon, the court order clutched tightly in my hand. It was just a piece of paper. A temporary reprieve against the relentless, corporate power of the railway. The victory felt hollow, tinged with the promise of endless future battles. The frontier was harsh, and justice, it seemed, was only as strong as the will to enforce it, and the money to sustain it.
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