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 morning after Silas’s death, a thin, persistent rain began to fall. It turned the dry Texas dust into a slick, heavy mud that clung to everything. I had spent the night covering Silas’s body with a clean sheet, the letter still clutched in his dead hand, unable to bring myself to move it. Thomas had retreated into the barn, not making a sound.
The silence was broken by the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels approaching the house. I watched from the window as Micah Gentry’s buggy, surprisingly clean despite the mud, pulled into the yard. He wasn’t alone.
A smaller, portly man with a fussy mustache and a dark suit sat beside him. Elihu Claggett, the county notary, I vaguely remembered Silas mentioning. His presence here, so soon after Silas’s death, was a cold, calculated move.
Gentry stepped down from the buggy, his movements precise and unhurried. He glanced up at the house, a faint, humorless smile playing on his lips. Claggett followed, adjusting his spectacles.
I opened the door before they could knock, stepping onto the porch. The damp air felt heavy, oppressive.
“Good morning, Miss Higgins,” Gentry said, his voice smooth, almost too polite. “A most unfortunate development, I hear.”
He didn’t offer condolences. He didn’t even pretend.
“What do you want, Mr. Gentry?” I asked, my voice flat. My resolve had solidified overnight. I wouldn’t break.
Gentry reached inside his coat, pulling out a folded document. “A simple matter, really. The transfer of property.”
He held out a thick piece of parchment. “Mr. O’Driscoll sold this ranch to me three weeks ago. Two hundred dollars for three thousand, two hundred acres. A fair price, considering his… circumstances.”
My eyes scanned the document. It was a land conveyance, legally titled. My gaze fell upon the signature line. A clear, distinct thumbprint.
“Silas’s mark,” Gentry stated, as if reading my thoughts. “He was in sound mind, as Mr. Claggett here can attest.”
Claggett nodded, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Indeed. I personally witnessed the agreement and affixed my seal.”
I took the document, my fingers brushing against the stiff paper. My eyes narrowed. The ink on the thumbprint was darker, richer, than the surrounding text. It seemed to sit on top of the paper, not seeped into it like the older, drier words.
The date stamped beside it read “October 14, 1883″—three weeks prior, exactly as Gentry claimed. But the ink, it was too fresh.
“This ink,” I said, holding the paper up slightly. “It looks new. Newer than three weeks.”
Claggett bristled, stepping forward. “Miss Higgins, you are an outsider. An unmarried, unrelated visitor from Maryland. You have no legal standing here to question official county documents.”
He gave Gentry a quick, nervous glance.
Gentry folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “The matter is settled. The O’Driscoll homestead belongs to the Texas & Pacific Railway, effective immediately.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. “We understand this is a difficult time for you. Therefore, we are granting you and young Thomas a grace period.”
He gestured vaguely toward the house. “Forty-eight hours. To pack your personal belongings. Anything left after that time will be considered abandoned property.”
My blood ran cold. Forty-eight hours. To leave everything, with nowhere to go and less than fifteen dollars to my name.
“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice rising.
Gentry’s smile widened, a glint of steel in his eyes. “Oh, but I assure you, Miss Higgins. We most certainly can.”
He tipped his hat, a mocking gesture. “Enjoy your stay in Shackelford County while it lasts.”
He turned, the notary scrambling to follow him back to the buggy. As they drove away, the silence of the ranch felt heavier than ever. My time was running out.
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