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 forty-eight-hour deadline felt like a countdown to doom. With Silas dead and Gentry’s fraudulent claim hanging over us, my only hope was to find someone in authority who might listen. I couldn’t abandon Thomas.
I left Thomas in the barn, explaining I would return. He merely nodded, his eyes hollow. I saddled the ranch’s old mare, her ribs showing through her sparse hide, and set off for Fort Griffin under a sky that still threatened rain. The twelve miles felt endless.
As I rode into town, a chilling sight met me. The wooden sidewalks, the posts, the walls of the general store—all plastered with sheets of printed paper. Handbills. Hundreds of them, fluttering in the breeze.
I reined in the mare, my stomach tightening. A knot of townsfolk stood near the saloon, their heads together, murmuring. As I dismounted, their whispers died. They turned, their eyes fixed on me, not with curiosity, but with a cold, judgmental stare.
I walked toward the nearest handbill, my boots sinking into the mud. The bold, black letters leaped out at me.
“WARNING: Fleeing Baltimore Criminal in Our Midst!”
My name, Clara Higgins, was emblazoned beneath it. The text accused me of swindling my way into an old man’s home, of preying on a vulnerable rancher, and, most damningly, of murdering him for his estate. It painted Thomas as an “incompetent impostor.”
Gentry. This was his work, orchestrated with cruel precision.
I tore one down, my fingers trembling with rage. The whispers started again, louder now, following me like a shadow. I pushed through the growing crowd, my face burning.
I needed supplies. My fifteen dollars wouldn’t last long, but we needed flour, salt. I entered the general store, the bell above the door jangling sharply. The proprietor, a man with a heavy beard, was behind the counter, serving a woman. He looked up, his eyes narrowing.
“Just a moment, ma’am,” he said, not looking at me directly. He finished with his customer, then turned, his arms crossed. “What can I do for you, Miss Higgins?” His tone was stiff, formal.
“Flour, a pound of coffee, and some dried meat,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
He didn’t move. “I’m afraid we’re out of stock on most of those items, ma’am.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “And… we prefer to serve our regular customers first.”
It was a blatant lie. Sacks of flour towered behind him. He wasn’t out of stock; he was refusing to serve me. My money, my last few coins, were useless here.
I left the store, the townsfolk’s stares burning into my back. My throat was dry, my heart pounding. Gentry was systematically cutting off every lifeline.
I remembered Martha Devlin, the boarding house owner. Silas had mentioned she sometimes rented out extra rooms. She was a gossip, but I hoped she might offer some small mercy, or at least a meal.
I found her sweeping the porch of her boarding house. She stopped, leaning on her broom, her expression hard.
“Martha, I need to speak with you,” I began, my voice hoarse.
She shook her head, a tight line for her mouth. “I think you’ve spoken enough, Miss Higgins. Those papers… they say quite a lot.”
She gestured toward a handbill tacked to her own porch post. “My establishment has a reputation to uphold. We don’t cater to… swindlers and worse.”
She turned her back, resuming her sweeping. The message was clear. There was no help here. No shelter, no food, no allies. Gentry had poisoned the well, and I was alone, isolated, in a town that believed me to be a murderer.
My vision blurred. I was trapped.
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