Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at Eagle Pass
The common room of the stage station smelled of stale pipe tobacco, boiled coffee, and cedar sawdust. Judge Holloway sat at a heavy oak table beneath a swinging kerosene lamp, his spectacles perched low on his nose as he spread the disputed land patent flat against the scarred wood. Across from him stood Caleb and Aya, while Tom Parker guarded the front entrance, watching the dusty road outside through the grime-streaked window glass.
Holloway traced a finger along the embossed territorial stamp at the bottom of the page, his expression darkening with every passing second. "This seal," the judge muttered, more to himself than to the room, "was issued out of the Austin registry during the spring session. But the tracking number... this doesn't match the sequence for northern grazing rights."
"It doesn't match because it was backdated using a canceled folio from my cousin Arthur's old desk," Aya said, leaning her hands on the edge of the table. "My father had the forms stored in his private safe. He filled them out last week after I refused the Carver marriage, filed them through a corrupted clerk in Tascosa, and used them to seize the northern basin under the new water-rights statute."
Holloway looked up over his spectacles, studying her with a sharp, professional eye. "That is a very serious charge, Miss Vance. Forging a territorial land patent is a federal offense—it carries a ten-year mandatory sentence in the federal penitentiary at Huntsville, even for a man of Marcus Vance's standing."
"If you ride into Tascosa with that paper tomorrow, my father's friends on the county bench will declare it genuine before you even sit down," Aya replied, her voice steady and uncompromising. "The only way to stop him is to impound the original registry ledger here, tonight, before he sends his men to burn this station down around our ears."
Before the judge could answer, a heavy thud shook the front wall of the station, followed by the sharp, undeniable sound of a horse rearing and a man shouting outside. Tom Parker ducked away from the window, his hand sliding smoothly to his revolver.
"They're here," Tom said, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register. "Half a dozen riders just pulled up in the yard. And they ain't knocking."
Caleb didn't hesitate. He stepped to the window, peering through the slats just as Marcus Vance’s foreman, a hulking brute named Miller Vance, swung down from a lathered sorrel and planted his boots firmly in the dust of the yard. Three other armed men fanned out on either side of the porch, their rifles cradled in their arms.
"Caleb Ror! Miss Vance!" Miller's voice boomed through the wooden walls, thick with arrogant menace. "Open this door and hand over the girl and that piece of paper, or we'll burn this station down with everyone inside it. The judge can find another way back to Austin!"
Judge Holloway stood up slowly from the table, his face pale with anger. "In my presence? On territorial business?"
"Vance doesn't care about your business, Judge," Caleb said, pulling his Winchester free from his scabbard and checking the magazine tube. He looked at Aya, his expression softening for just a fraction of a second before hardening back into stone. "Stay behind the oak framing with the judge. Whatever happens out there, this paper stays inside."
"I'm not hiding anymore, Caleb," Aya said, stepping forward with her revolver drawn and cocked, her eyes blazing with the same fierce defiance that had first caught his eye on the fence post. "We finish this together."
Before Caleb could object, the front door splintered inward as a heavy boot slammed against the latch. Miller Vance stepped through the opening, a heavy dragoon pistol in his right hand, a cruel grin spreading across his bearded face. But before he could level his barrel, Tom Parker’s revolver barked from the shadows of the corner, the bullet striking the doorframe an inch from Miller’s ear and sending wood splinters flying.
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"Drop the iron, Miller," Tom snarled, his aim rock steady. "You're a long way from the ranch house, and nobody's going to write an inquest for a dead thug."
Miller froze, his eyes darting from Tom to Caleb, then to Judge Holloway standing tall behind the table with the disputed patent clutched in his hand. The foreman’s jaw worked silently as he realized the trap had sprung shut.
