Banished from Montana for rejecting a powerful baron, she blew the whistle on his corrupt land empire, sacrificing everything for a justice that never fully arrived.
Finding Silas Croft proved surprisingly easy, though approaching him would be anything but. Elias, ever the cautious tactician, rode into a small, isolated settlement known as Miller’s Pass, a few days’ ride from Elk Creek. He went alone, posing as a potential seller of a modest parcel of land, hoping to draw Croft out.
“He was at the saloon, playing cards,” Elias reported when he returned, his voice low. “Nervous fellow. Kept looking over his shoulder, even when he was winning.”
Croft was exactly as Jedediah had described him: a man with an air of desperation clinging to him, despite the expensive ring on his finger and the polished boots. Elias tried to inquire about Marsh’s land dealings, subtly hinting at “unusual circumstances” in some recent acquisitions. Croft had quickly deflected, his eyes darting around the room.
“He changed the subject faster than a spooked rabbit,” Elias observed. “Said he only dealt in ‘straightforward’ transactions. But his hand was shaking when he shuffled the cards.”
I knew I couldn’t afford Elias to take more risks. My own approach had to be direct, leveraging the knowledge from Jedediah’s ledger. The next morning, I rode out, taking a separate, less-traveled path towards Miller’s Pass. Elias would follow discreetly, providing backup if needed.
I found Croft in the settlement’s small general store, haggling over the price of tobacco. He was a wiry man, with darting eyes and a perpetually worried frown etched between his brows. He wore a respectable suit, but it seemed to hang on him, as if he couldn’t quite fill the clothes of an honest man.
“Mr. Croft?” I asked, stepping in front of him.
He looked up, startled, his eyes widening as he recognized me from Elk Creek. The fugitive. A flicker of fear, raw and immediate, crossed his face.
“Miss Carter,” he stammered, his voice thin. “I… I understood you were… elsewhere.”
“I am where I need to be, Mr. Croft,” I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the apprehension I felt. “And so are you.”
I watched him closely. His gaze flickered to the door, a clear indication of his desire to flee.
“I know about the Miller Homestead, Mr. Croft,” I continued, lowering my voice slightly. “And the Thompson gold claim. And the creek that mysteriously shifted its boundaries on Elias Thorne’s land.”
His face drained of color. He clutched the tobacco tin so tightly his knuckles turned white. This was the moment I needed to press.
“I also know about Jedediah Finch’s ledger,” I stated, watching for his reaction.
The mention of the ledger hit him like a physical blow. He stumbled back, knocking over a display of canned peaches. They rolled across the dusty floor, ignored.
“The ledger?” he whispered, his eyes wide with genuine terror. “That old fool… he kept it?”
His fear was deeper than just losing business, or even facing Marsh’s wrath. It was a profound, personal dread, as if a hidden secret had just been exposed. His composure crumbled, replaced by naked panic. The proprietor of the store glanced over, curious, but kept his distance.
“Marsh has you in his pocket, doesn’t he?” I pressed, stepping closer. “He forces you to do his dirty work, covering his tracks, while he reaps the rewards.”
Croft swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He seemed on the verge of tears, or perhaps a full breakdown. He was trapped, caught between my knowledge and Marsh’s unspoken threat.
“You don’t understand,” he choked out, his voice hoarse. “You don’t know what he’d do.”
His gaze landed on a small, hand-painted ceramic bird figurine on the counter, its wings chipped. Marsh had once paid Croft for a similar figurine, claiming it was for his young niece, only to later return it in pieces, claiming it was “fragile and worthless,” deliberately breaking a personal item to showcase his power. This memory seemed to visibly wound Croft, making him recoil from the sight of the intact bird. It was a stark reminder of Marsh’s particular brand of psychological torment.
I could see it clearly now. Croft wasn’t an evil man, just a broken one. He was a pawn, terrified of his master. His fear was not for Marsh’s anger, but for something far more personal, far more devastating. I knew Marsh’s tactics: he found a weakness and exploited it mercilessly. I had to find that weakness, to free Croft from Marsh’s grasp, if we were to truly expose the baron.
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