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 letter clutched in my hand felt like a burning coal, searing away my exhaustion. I didn’t wait for dawn. The militia record, the proof of Thomas’s inheritance—it was our only hope.
I quietly went to the lean-to where the old draft horse, Blue, was kept. She was bony and slow, but she was all we had. I saddled her quickly, the leather creaking softly in the dark. Thomas watched me from the barn doorway, his face a pale oval in the gloom.
I turned to him, my voice hushed. “I have to go to Albany. Find this record.”
He walked toward me, the slate already in his hand. He wrote furiously, then held it up.
*If you do not return by nightfall, I will burn the barn and run into the brush.*
My breath caught in my throat. It was a desperate plea, a stark measure of his terror. He was giving me until sunset.
“I’ll be back,” I promised, my voice thick with emotion. I looked into his eyes, trying to convey every ounce of my resolve. “I promise.”
I mounted Blue, the saddle creaking under my weight. The air was cool, damp. The sky was still bruised with night, but a hint of bruised violet showed on the eastern horizon.
The rain began a mile out, a soft, steady drizzle that soon turned into a heavy, drenching downpour. It plastered my hair to my face, soaked through my Baltimore coat, and turned the already muddy trail into a treacherous bog. Every step Blue took was a laborious squelch. My boots, thin and unsuitable for Texas, were ruined, filled with icy water and thick, red mud.
The journey was slow, grueling. The flat, open prairie stretched endlessly, broken only by scattered clumps of mesquite brush. I shivered, the cold seeping into my bones. My silk dress, mended so many times, felt like a shroud.
I pushed Blue relentlessly, urging her forward, my mind replaying Silas’s letter, Thomas’s silent plea.
I was perhaps halfway to Albany when a dark speck appeared on the horizon, growing steadily larger. My heart leaped into my throat. A buggy. It was moving fast, approaching from the opposite direction on the main trail.
My stomach dropped as the buggy grew closer, the familiar silhouette of Micah Gentry and his distinctive high-wheeled vehicle becoming clear. He was either coming from Albany, or returning from some other wicked errand. Either way, encountering him now, with Silas’s confession letter and my desperate mission, would be disastrous.
I quickly pulled Blue off the main trail, into a dense stand of mesquite brush. The thorns clawed at my soaked dress and hands, but I ignored them. I pulled Blue’s muzzle close to my face, covering her nostrils with my hand, forcing her to be silent. Her body pressed against mine, warm and solid.
The buggy sped past, mere feet from where we were hidden. I could hear the rhythmic clop of Gentry’s horse, the creak of the wheels, the murmur of his voice as he spoke to someone I couldn’t see. My muscles tensed, every nerve screaming.
He passed. The sound faded. I waited a full minute, listening, before slowly, carefully, I moved Blue back onto the trail. My breath hitched, a silent sob escaping me. That was too close. Much too close.
Albany felt impossibly far, but I pressed on, spurred by fear and a desperate hope.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours