If you stay in this broken wagon, girl, the night frost will claim you and that unborn child before moonrise.
Judge Thaddeus O’Rourke’s private residence was not a courtroom, but the tension in the parlor was as thick as any legal proceeding. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows over the faces gathered there.
Jonas Albright sat rigidly in a plush armchair, his face pale and beaded with sweat despite the warmth of the room. Silas Gable stood nearby, his arms crossed, a sneer twisting his lips. Leo, Hettie, and I sat on a settee, the ledger Ephraim had delivered resting on the coffee table between us.
Judge O’Rourke, stern and unyielding, held the ledger open. His finger rested on an entry: “J. Albright – Oct 14 – expedited land transfer – $200.” Another entry, dated weeks earlier: “J. Albright – Sept 1 – boundary re-certification – $200.”
“Mr. Albright,” the Judge began, his voice cutting through the silence. “Can you explain these entries? Specifically, the payment for an ‘expedited land transfer’ of Martha Gable’s property weeks after her husband’s death, and the ‘boundary re-certification’ while her husband was still alive?”
Albright squirmed, glancing nervously at Silas. Silas’s eyes narrowed, a silent threat.
“It’s… it’s standard fees, Judge,” Albright stammered, his voice thin. “For the extra work involved. And the re-certification, that was just… an error on the original survey, needing correction.”
Hettie spoke up, her voice sharp. “So Silas Gable paid you $400 for ‘standard fees,’ Mr. Albright? That’s quite a generous sum for paperwork.”
“And the gold dust, Mr. Albright?” Leo interjected, his gaze piercing. “Was that a standard fee too? Or was that for the expedited processing of a forged signature?”
Albright’s head snapped towards Silas. The mention of gold dust clearly unnerved him. His carefully constructed facade began to crumble.
“I… I didn’t know it was forged!” Albright burst out, his voice cracking. “Silas, he… he said she was too ill! He said she’d agreed to sign over the property, but she was too weak to hold a pen.”
Silas took a step forward, his face contorted in a silent snarl. “You’re a liar, Albright!”
“He made me do it, Judge!” Albright cried, pointing a trembling finger at Silas. “He said he would ruin me! He held my family’s land over my head! He said Martha was suffering from prairie madness, that she was practically unconscious! He promised she would never know!”
The room fell silent. Albright’s confession, a desperate act of self-preservation, hung in the air. He had thrown Silas under the wagon.
Silas’s face, usually so composed, was now a mask of pure fury. But Albright wasn’t done.
“He told me to just make her mark myself,” Albright continued, rushing his words, trying to get ahead of Silas’s wrath. “He said she was semi-conscious, Judge. He said it was for her own good, to keep the land in the family. I didn’t forge her signature while she was *competent*.”
He was trying to save himself, to shift a portion of the blame. But the confession was made. Silas had orchestrated the forgery.
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