Chapter 7 - The Line at the Crossing
The timber sled rattled as Silas urged the bay team down the final incline toward the lower river crossing, with Eda and the rest of the girls walking close behind. By the time they reached the edge of the clearing where the logs were stacked, the sun was struggling to punch through a thick blanket of gray cloud, casting a bleak, flat light over the snow.
Mr. Vance sat comfortably in a black-topped lacquered buggy parked right beside the fifty stacked cords of cedar, holding a silver-knobbed walking stick across his knees. Beside him sat Sheriff Henderson, a heavy-set man with a drooping mustache and a silver star pinned dully to his wool vest. Two armed men on horseback—strangers with low-slung holsters and cynical eyes—lingered near the bridge approach.
Vance snapped open his silver pocket watch, clicked it shut with a sharp ping, and looked up as Silas brought the team to a halt.
"Well, Boon," Vance called out, his voice oily and carrying easily across the clearing. "The sun is up, and it's past the hour. I don't see fifty cords of seasoned cedar stacked at the marker. Looks like the bank's mortgage reversion goes into effect today."
Silas stepped down from the sled, his boots hitting the frozen mud with a heavy thud. He walked past the buggy wheels until he was standing ten feet from the banker. "Count 'em, Vance. There are fifty-two cords stacked between the willow brake and the creek bed. We finished hauling the last load an hour before dawn."
Vance’s smug expression twitched. He stood up slowly from the buggy seat, leaning heavily on his cane, and walked over to the nearest stack of logs, running a gloved finger over the cut end of a cedar log. He tapped it with his cane.
"Fresh sap," Vance muttered, his eyes narrowing. "These logs were cut within the last ten days. Under the standard mortgage covenant for the east pasture parcel, timber harvested under emergency duress requires explicit verification of grade and count by an appointed bank surveyor. Where is the surveyor's mark, Silas?"
"You didn't say a damn thing about a surveyor when you laid out the terms ten days ago," Eda said, stepping forward past Silas's shoulder, her eyes flashing with cold fury. "You said fifty cords stacked and ready at the crossing by Friday. The wood is here. It's seasoned, it's cut to regulation length, and there are two extra cords for good measure."
Sheriff Henderson cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. "Now look here, miss. The law's the law. Mr. Vance represents the territorial bank board out of Laramie. If the contract specifies a surveyor's verification—"
"The contract specified fifty cords at the crossing," Silas interrupted, his voice flat and lethal. "It didn't mention any surveyor. You wrote those terms down in a pocket notebook, Vance. I watched you do it."
Vance smiled thinly, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. "Verbal understandings with bank representatives aren't binding under territorial property law, Boon. Especially when the collateral involves valuable water rights. My silent partner has already filed the transfer papers at the county seat in Cheyenne. All we need is the sheriff's signature to clear the homestead boundaries."
Eda’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was racing. She looked past Vance's buggy, studying the two hired gunmen sitting their horses near the bridge. Their hand placement near their holsters wasn't defensive; it was practiced. They weren't here to enforce a legal foreclosure. They were here to provoke a fight that would give the sheriff an excuse to arrest Silas for disturbing the peace, leaving the ranch completely undefended.
"You didn't come here to inspect timber, Vance," Eda said clearly, her voice cutting through the morning silence like a blade. "You came here because you knew we'd beat your deadline, and you needed a way to steal the water rights anyway."
Sheriff Henderson frowned, glancing sideways at the banker. "Is that true, Vance? Because I ain't backing an illegal seizure if there's a court challenge coming."
Vance’s face flushed dark red. "Shut up, Henderson, or I'll have the board review your commission by noon! These vagrants don't own—"
"They own the labor that built this stack," a deep voice interrupted from behind the wagon trail.
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Everyone turned. A second wagon was creaking down the snowy road from the upper hills, driven by old man Miller, the county clerk from town, who had a reputation for being incorruptible and hating bankers with a purple passion. Beside him sat two sworn deputies from the northern district, holding official survey documents with red wax seals.
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