"October 14th, five years ago!" Clara read loudly. "Five hundred dollars paid to J. Vance to set fire to the Mercer homestead at Willow Bend to force Jonah Mercer off his timber land! Three weeks later—two hundred dollars paid to Deputy Clyde to report the deaths of Ruth Mercer and Thomas Mercer as accidental fire!"
A collective gasp echoed from behind the closed shutters of the town.
On the boardwalk outside the dry goods store, old Mrs. Gable pushed her door open, her hands covering her mouth in horror.
"Page 42!" Clara shouted, turning the heavy ledger pages with fierce determination. "March 12th! Three thousand dollars transferred to Magistrate Miller to declare the Miller family farm in default of mortgage! Two days later, Miller’s barn was burned to the ground and his livestock poisoned! Paid to Silas Harrow’s personal guard!"
"Lies! All lies from a lunatic widow!" Harrow snarled, his face flushed red with rage. "Sheriff, shoot her!"
Sheriff Vance hesitated, his hands trembling violently at his belt. He looked around the square.
More doors were opening.
Henry Vance, the giant blacksmith, stepped out into the middle of the street, carrying his heavy sledgehammer over one shoulder. Behind him stepped Thomas Wright, the town carpenter, holding a broadax. Then came Martha Higgins, wife of the newspaperman, carrying a double-barreled shotgun, followed by six timber men from the upper sawmills, their faces hard and grim.
"Page 89!" Clara continued, her voice rising above the murmur of the gathering crowd. "August 3rd! Eight hundred dollars paid to wreck the timber bridge on Black Creek! Twelve hundred dollars paid to buy the county recorder’s office to forge the land deeds for the entire eastern ridge!"
"That's my ridge!" roared a voice from the crowd. It was Jacob Miller, a weathered farmer whose family had lived in the valley for thirty years. "He stole my father's homestead!"
"He burned my grain store!" screamed another rancher, stepping out from behind the saloon.
"He killed the Mercer boy!" cried Mrs. Gable, tears streaming down her withered cheeks.
Silas Harrow looked around the square in sudden, cold terror. The fear that had kept the people of Graystone quiet, divided, and submissive for five long years was evaporating before his very eyes, replaced by a sudden, terrifying tide of righteous fury.
The townsfolk were no longer hiding behind windows. Dozens of men and women stepped into the street, surrounding Harrow’s hired gunhands from behind, armed with hunting rifles, pitchforks, axes, and handguns.
"Brant! Shoot them! Shoot them all!" Harrow screamed, backing up the wooden steps toward the courthouse door.
Brant Cole looked at the fifty armed townsfolk closing in around him, then looked at Jonah Mercer’s steady rifle barrel three feet from his chest.
Brant slowly raised both hands in the air and dropped his gun into the mud.
"I ain't dying for you, Harrow," Brant muttered through gritted teeth.
One by one, Harrow’s hired guards dropped their rifles into the dirt, raising their hands as the angry crowd surged forward.
With his hired mercenaries disarmed and demoralized, Silas Harrow broke into a panic. He turned and bolted up the courthouse steps, pulling a small silver-plated Derringer from his vest pocket.
"He's running!" shouted Jacob Miller, charging forward with a heavy wooden club.
Sheriff Elias Vance, terrified of the approaching crowd, hastily unpinned his brass badge, dropped it onto the boardwalk, and backed away into the alley with his hands held high.
Harrow reached the heavy oak doors of the courthouse, scrambled inside, and attempted to slam them shut. But Jonah Mercer was faster.
Jonah leaped up the wooden steps in three long strides, kicking the left oak door inward with such force that it struck Harrow across the chest, sending the tyrant crashing onto the marble floor of the foyer.
The townspeople poured into the courthouse behind Jonah and Clara, filling the high-ceilinged entry hall. The giant blacksmith, Henry Vance, kicked Harrow’s dropped Derringer across the floor and stood over him like an vengeful iron giant.
Harrow scrambled backward on his elbows, his expensive suit coated in dirt, his hair disheveled, his refined composure shattered into jagged pieces. He looked at the faces surrounding him—faces of men he had ruined, women he had threatened, and children he had impoverished.
"You can't do this!" Harrow shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. "I own this court! I own this land! You are all criminals!"
"You own nothing in this valley anymore, Harrow," Clara said, stepping through the front rank of the crowd, the ledger held firmly in her hand. "You only own the debt of your crimes."
Jonah stood beside Clara, his Winchester rifle resting loosely in his left hand, looking down at the man who had ordered the death of his family. For five years, Jonah had imagined this moment—imagined putting a bullet through Harrow’s heart and watching him die in the dirt.