Chapter 8 - The Weight of Evidence
The standoff in the muddy yard stretched taut, the only sound being the drip of melting snow from the eaves and the restless pawing of a cavalry mount. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, Lieutenant Hayes's hand hovered dangerously close to the butt of his service revolver, his eyes locked on Gideon’s steady, unblinking gaze.
Then, with a sharp pull of his reins, Hayes forced his horse back a half-step, breaking the tension. He wasn't afraid of the rancher, but starting a firefight over a civilian dispute in front of two witnesses—and with the spring thaw turning the roads into quagmires—was a court-martial waiting to happen.
"We don't need to shoot our way into a log cabin today, Mercer," Hayes said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. He leveled a gloved finger at Hattie. "She thinks she's clever hiding behind a frontier family. But the telegraph wire down in town is humming. A federal judge is riding circuit up from Laramie right now. He'll be in the valley by the end of the week with a proper warrant that covers every stick of timber on this ranch."
Vance sneered, adjusting his hat against the drizzle. "And when he signs that order, Mercer, harboring a fugitive becomes a federal offense. You'll lose the ranch, the children, and your freedom just to protect a woman who lied to you from the day she arrived."
"Let's ride, Marshal," Hayes muttered, wheeling his horse around.
Without another word, the three men spurred their mounts, churning the melting snow into flying brown spray as they galloped back down the trail toward the valley floor, leaving the yard quiet once more except for the dripping water and their fading hoofbeats.
Gideon stood in the mud for a long moment, watching them disappear around the bend of the ridge, before turning slowly back toward the house. Hattie was waiting on the porch, her hands tightly clasped in front of her apron, her face pale.
"They're coming back with a judge's signature," Hattie said, her voice trembling slightly for the first time. "You heard him, Gideon. Once that paper is signed, you'll be sheltering a criminal in the eyes of the law. You have to let me go."
Gideon climbed the steps, shook the wet mud from his boots, and walked straight past her into the cabin. He went to the corner, knelt by the heavy leather trunk, and threw open the lid.
"What are you doing?" Hattie asked, following him inside.
Without answering, Gideon reached past the surgical instruments and the rolls of clean linen, lifting out the false wooden bottom that Hattie had craftily installed beneath the books. Beneath it lay not just Thomas's journal and the army discharge papers, but a thick packet of sealed letters bearing the personal wax seals of several high-ranking eastern senators and members of the congressional military committee.
Gideon looked up at her, holding the packet in his calloused hands. "You didn't just run away with a diary, Hattie. You carried the only proof of a cover-up that stretches all the way to Washington."
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"If I hand those over to a local circuit judge hand-picked by the territorial governor, they'll be burned before nightfall," Hattie said, dropping to her knees beside him. "Vance is on their payroll. The whole district is rigged."
"Which is why we aren't waiting for them to bring their judge here," Gideon said, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce determination. "We're going to him."
