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.
I rode back to the ranch under a bruised, purple sky. The journey felt longer, heavier, with the town’s hostility clinging to me like the mud on my boots. My few remaining coins were still in my purse, now utterly useless.
As I approached the northern pasture, a flicker of movement caught my eye. Three figures on horseback, masked, their forms dark against the fading light. They were circling, their horses kicking up sprays of mud.
One of them shouted, his voice rough and slurred. “Get off O’Driscoll land! Or you’ll be joining him in the ground!”
Another let out a whooping yell. They weren’t just passing by. This was a direct threat, an escalation. Gentry wasn’t waiting for the law; he was sending his own kind of enforcers.
I spurred the mare forward, reaching the house, then dismounting. My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to be steady. I found Thomas inside the barn, not hiding this time, but clutching an old Springfield rifle. His knuckles were white, his whole body trembling.
He lifted the heavy rifle, but it swayed in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to point it, his fear paralyzing him. He stared at the barn door, then at me, his eyes wide with a silent plea.
“Give it to me, Thomas,” I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my chest.
He hesitated, then slowly extended the rifle. Its weight felt alien in my hands, cold and heavy. I’d never fired a gun in my life, but I knew what I had to do.
I stepped to the open barn door, peering out into the twilight. The riders were closer now, their taunts growing louder. They thought I was alone, helpless.
I lifted the rifle, aiming not at them, but at the muddy ground directly in front of the main gate. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, then squeezed the trigger.
The blast was deafening, echoing across the prairie. The recoil slammed into my shoulder, sending a shockwave up my arm. Dirt erupted where the bullet struck.
The riders froze. For a moment, they were silent, caught off guard. Then, with a cry, they wheeled their horses around and galloped off into the darkness, their threats fading with the hoofbeats.
I leaned against the door frame, the rifle still heavy in my hands, my heart hammering like a blacksmith’s forge. My shoulder ached.
Thomas came up beside me, his eyes wide, then slowly, a flicker of something close to admiration crossed his face. He gently took the rifle from my hands.
The immediate danger was gone, but the threat remained. My gaze drifted toward the northern creek, where the riders had been circling. A dark premonition settled over me.
I walked toward the creek, Thomas following silently. The air grew heavy with a sickening stench as we approached the bank. My stomach churned.
Two dead cows floated in the ranch’s primary water hole, their bloated bodies bobbing grotesquely. Their eyes were cloudy, and a viscous, white foam clung to their mouths. Lye. They had been poisoned.
This wasn’t just a threat. This was an attack on our survival. Without clean water, without the few cattle we had, we couldn’t last a week. Gentry wasn’t just trying to drive us out; he was trying to break us entirely.
I looked at Thomas, his face pale and drawn in the dim light. We couldn’t outlast them. We needed proof, legal proof.
My mind went to Silas, to the secrets he had kept. If Gentry was willing to go this far, there had to be something. Something Silas knew, something he had hidden.
“Thomas,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Your father… he must have kept records. Something.”
He met my gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between us. We needed to find whatever Silas had hidden. We needed answers before this ranch became our grave.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours