Chapter 21
The courthouse sat at the far end of the wide street in Dry Creek, the next town over from Silver Cross. Its whitewashed clapboard walls caught the morning sun, neat trim framing the windows as if to suggest dignity.
To Anthony, it looked more like a stage set than a house of justice. It was fresh paint and hollow boards propped up to hide the rot beneath.
He shifted in the saddle. The night before, Abigail had insisted that he tend to her wound. They had bandaged it with what little remained from her scorched clinic: clean water, strips of cloth, and salve that had been spared from the flames.
She was pale but standing. Her will was stronger than the pain.
But Anthony’s thoughts were far from the bandages.
He hadn’t known Abigail’s father had bound her claim to Eagle Rock.
He hadn’t known his own father was tied to it, too.
The name Redhawk had struck him hardest. It was familiar and distant at the same time, belonging to a quiet man in the tribe who had once shared a fire with him but little else.
So much his father had kept hidden. So much he hadn’t understood until now.
He dismounted, boots crunching in the dust. He turned and offered his hand to Abigail. “You ready?” he asked quietly.
Her gaze was fixed on the courthouse steps. “No. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”
“Then we make do, ma’am,” he replied.
Inside, cool air settled over them. A handful of townsfolk sat on benches, whispers rising as Anthony and Abigail stepped forward.
Judge Harper loomed at the raised bench.
He was a stout man with thinning hair and a belly that strained against his vest. His jowls shook as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the papers Abigail held.
After they formally introduced themselves, the judge allowed a few seconds before replying. It was as if he enjoyed wasting their time.
“Well, now . . .” Harper said, his voice slow and heavy. “Dr. Monroe. Mr. Hawk. What business brings you to my courtroom this morning?”
Abigail lifted the papers higher in case he couldn’t see them already.
“Your Honor, I bring documentation regarding Eagle Rock,” she said. “My father, a Boston lawyer, created a joint trust during the war. These deeds name me and Anthony Hawk as co-owners. No transfer of land can occur without our approval. This trust is binding.”
Murmurs rippled through the benches. Anthony only caught fragments.
He scanned faces. A few nodded with interest, but others glanced nervously at the judge instead.
Harper leaned back in his chair.
“That so? A mighty strong claim.” He tapped the papers with a stubby finger. “And you believe this is sufficient to prove ownership?”
“It is the law,” Abigail said. “My father’s signature, the seal of the notary, and the trusteeship outlined here. By law, it cannot be challenged.”
Anthony cut in, his tone flat but firm. “The land was stolen, Judge,” he added. “Vanburgh never had a rightful claim. These papers prove it.”
The judge’s lips twitched, curling toward a smile. “Mr. Hawk, you come here accusing a man who’s brought jobs, rail, and coin to this county,” he said. “You best have more than a pile of old papers.”
“It’s more than papers,” Anthony pressed. “It’s truth. If law means anything here, you’ll recognize it.”
Judge Harper chuckled, the sound low and oily. “Law?” He spread his hands wide. “Son, law ain’t words on paper. Law is what men agree it is. And in this court, I say what stands.”
Silence fell heavily around them. Abigail’s lips parted, ready to fire back, but her words caught. Anthony brushed her arm to steady her before turning his gaze back on the judge.
“Are you laughing at justice, Judge?” he asked.
Harper leaned forward on his elbows. “I’m laughin’ at fools who think ink can stop progress,” he replied. “The railroad is comin’. Folks here know it means trade, a future. And you’d stand in the way of that? You’ll find no sympathy in this room.”
From the benches came whispers. They were louder now.
“He’s right.”
“No, Vanburgh’s rotten.”
“Quiet, they’ll hear you.”
Abigail’s voice finally broke through, sharp and clear. “So, you admit it,” she said. “You’ve chosen Vanburgh’s side. This isn’t justice. It’s corruption.”
The judge’s face flushed red. “Careful, Doctor. Another word like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”
Anthony stepped closer to the bench with his shoulders squared. “You can sneer all you like, Judge,” he said. “But this land ain’t Vanburgh’s . . . and no bought court will make it so.”
A deputy stirred, hand near his revolver. The benches hushed. Anthony didn’t flinch. His eyes were locked on Harper.
Finally, the judge waved his hand. “Enough. Case dismissed. Get out before I decide to make an example of you.”
Abigail’s cheeks burned with fury, but Anthony guided her toward the door. She resisted, wanting to argue, but the smug curl of Harper’s mouth told her it was pointless.
Outside, sunlight struck harsh after the courthouse gloom. Townsfolk spilled out behind them, muttering. Anthony caught too many eyes lingering, heavy with judgment or fear. His gaze swept the street, and there they were.
Two of Vanburgh’s men leaned against the saloon post. Another lounged near the blacksmith’s. All of them pretended to have nothing better to do, but their eyes tracked Anthony and Abigail with sharp calculation.
It was easy to tell them apart from the locals. It was the way they stood. The clothes they wore. They were just . . . different.
On top of it all, they had an aura about them. An aura that screamed they were hired guns.
They followed them all the way to Dry Creek. They must have had eyes on Anthony and Abigail ever since the clinic.
“That was a farce,” Abigail said, breaking the silence first. “He never even looked at the evidence.”
Anthony’s hand hovered near his holster as he scanned the street. “Harper’s been in Vanburgh’s pocket longer than I’ve been breathing. This was never about law.”
She stopped him short, her eyes blazing. “Then what now? We can’t just walk away.”
“We don’t walk away,” he replied. “We find another way.”
“Another way?” Abigail asked, clearly frustrated. “What does that mean? You think bullets will solve what courts won’t? My father believed in law. He left those papers because he trusted it.”
Anthony leaned in, voice low.
“Your father wasn’t blind, ma’am,” he said. “He knew men like Vanburgh don’t play fair. He left those papers because he hoped law might hold, but he also knew one day, someone would have to fight.”
Her breath caught, anger warring with the steel in his tone. For a moment, neither one of them moved. The street buzzed faintly with wagons and horses, but it all felt far away.
“So, you think it’s hopeless,” she said at last. “Two against Vanburgh’s machine.”
Anthony’s eyes flicked toward the men watching from across the street. “Hopeless? No. Hard? Yes. But I’ve been outnumbered before. And I’m still standing.”
She searched his face, seeing the scars of old battles etched deep. Then her shoulders straightened, defiance sparking again.
“Then we don’t give him what he wants,” she said. “We try again. Somewhere, there’s a judge who’ll listen.”
Anthony allowed a faint smile, though his eyes never left Vanburgh’s men. “Now you’re talkin’ like someone who knows how to fight.”
“I’m a doctor,” she said, a wry edge to her voice. “I fight every day to keep people alive. Don’t tell me I don’t know how.”
Anthony’s laugh was short but real. “Fair enough.”
Across the street, one of the hired guns tipped his hat to shield his face. Another spat in the dust. Subtle signals, but Anthony read them clearly.
“We need to move,” he said quietly. “Eyes are on us.”
Abigail followed his gaze. “They’re not even hiding it.”
“No. That’s the point.” He offered his arm, guiding her toward the horses. “Vanburgh wants us to feel the rope tightening.”
Her voice was steady now. “And what do we give him?”
Anthony swung into the saddle, scanning the street one last time. “Nothing he can use.”