Shopkeepers peered nervously through dirty window glass, pulling down black roller shades. Mothers hastily pulled children inside and bolted wooden shutters. The blacksmith, old Henry Vance, stood outside his forge, his leather apron covered in soot, holding a heavy iron sledgehammer in his hands. As Jonah and Clara rode past, Henry met Jonah’s eyes and gave a single, slow nod of grim recognition.
"They're afraid," Clara muttered, her fingers tightening around her horse's reins.
"They've been afraid for five years," Jonah replied quietly, keeping his head up, his eyes scanning every rooftop, balcony, and alleyway. "Fear is a habit, Clara. You break it by showing folks that the tyrant bleeds the same as any other man."
They rode straight toward the center of town, stopping in front of the two-story brick building that served as the Graystone County Courthouse and Sheriff's Office.
Standing on the high wooden steps of the courthouse stood Silas Harrow.
Harrow was a tall, immaculate man in his mid-fifties, wearing a tailored black wool suit, a silk cravat, and a gold watch chain stretched across his crisp waistcoat. His grey hair was neatly combed, his moustache trimmed, and his blue eyes were as cold and sharp as polished glass. Standing on his right was Sheriff Elias Vance—a fat, soft man with a brass badge pinned crookedly to his vest. On Harrow’s left stood Brant Cole and eight heavily armed men wearing buffalo coats and carrying lever-action rifles.
As Jonah and Clara pulled their horses to a halt in the middle of the street, a dozen more of Harrow’s hired gunhands stepped out from the alleys and saloon porches, surrounding the two riders in a loose, deadly circle.
Silas Harrow stepped down one wooden stair, resting his gloved hand on the head of an ivory-handled walking cane.
"Jonah Mercer," Harrow said, his voice smooth, cultured, and resonant as a church bell. "I heard a strange rumor this morning. My men tell me you're harboring a thief and claiming she is your wife."
"She is no thief, Harrow," Jonah said, his voice carrying clearly down the quiet length of Main Street, reaching the ears of the townsfolk hiding behind closed doors. "And she is my betrothed under territorial law. You have no legal right to touch her, and no authority to demand anything from this horse."
Harrow let out a light, dry chuckle. "Territorial law? I am the law in this valley, Mercer. I built this town. I paved these roads. I pay the sheriff, I pay the magistrate, and I pay the taxes that keep this county alive. Matthew Voss stole financial records from my bank—records containing confidential client business. Your little stunt with a pistol last night doesn't change the fact that Clara Voss is going to a cell."
"Her name is Clara Mercer!" Clara’s voice rang out like a trumpet across the muddy square. She dismounted her horse smoothly and stepped up beside Jonah, holding the leather satchel high for all to see. "And these are not private client records! This is the record of your crimes, Silas Harrow!"
Harrow’s smile vanished instantly. His blue eyes narrowed into slits of deadly malice.
"Sheriff Vance," Harrow said softly, without turning his head. "Arrest those two for theft and treason against the town authority."
Sheriff Vance swallowed hard, his face pale, taking a tentative step down the stairs. "Jonah... give it up. You're outnumbered twenty to one. Don't throw your life away."
Jonah didn't look at the sheriff. His eyes remained locked on Silas Harrow.
"Elias," Jonah said quietly, "if you take one more step down those stairs, you won't live to see noon."
The tension in the square was so tight it felt as though a single spark would ignite the entire town into flames. Brant Cole’s hand hovered over his holster, his eyes flicking nervously toward Jonah’s right hand, which rested lightly on the stock of his Winchester rifle.
Before anyone could draw a breath, Clara stepped directly into the center of the muddy street, pulled the brass-clasped ledger from her oilskin satchel, and opened it wide.
"Listen to me!" Clara shouted, her voice booming off the timber walls of the general store and the hotel. "Listen to what Matthew Voss wrote down before Silas Harrow murdered him!"
"Silence her!" Harrow roared, losing his calm composure for the first time. "Brant, take that book!"
Brant took two aggressive steps forward, drawing his pistol, but the loud, terrifying CRACK-CLICK of Jonah’s Winchester rifle being levered stopped him dead in his tracks. The cold muzzle of Jonah's rifle pointed directly between Brant’s eyes.
"Touch her, Brant," Jonah said in a low whisper that thrilled through the quiet air, "and your soul leaves your body before your knee hits the mud."
Brant froze, sweat dripping down his temple.
Clara did not even look at Brant. She turned toward the dark windows of the stores, reading in a strong, clear, unwavering voice that reverberated through the valley.