Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at the Salt Lick
The plateau was a vast, desolate tableland of white grass and scattered juniper flats, swept clean by an unremitting wind that drove the temperature down toward zero with every passing hour.
They walked for three hours without stopping, their boots crunching rhythmically across the frozen crust. Leah walked between them, leaning heavily on her sister’s shoulder, her face pale with exhaustion but her steps resolute.
As the afternoon sun began to dip toward the jagged western summits, casting long, bruised shadows across the snow, the stone ruins of an old government waystation loomed ahead—four crumbling walls of unmortared limestone surrounding a dry well and a rusted iron water pump.
“Inside,” Gideon said, gesturing toward the sheltered lee of the north wall where the snow had drifted high against the stones.
They collapsed against the limestone, the thick masonry blocking the worst of the howling wind. Gideon pulled a small flask of watered whiskey from his coat, unscrewed the cap, and handed it first to Leah, then to Wya.
“We have twenty miles left to Cheyenne,” Gideon said, checking the remaining cartridges in his belt. “If we keep this pace through the night, we’ll reach the federal marshal’s office before sunrise tomorrow.”
Wya wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, her amber eyes reflecting the cold grey light of the dying day. “Voss will not let us reach Cheyenne.”
“He can’t follow us across the high plateau in the dark,” Gideon replied. “The trail is too exposed. Without Isaac to track us, they’re blind in this whiteout.”
“He didn't send men to track us across the plateau,” a voice stepped out from the shadows near the broken doorway.
Gideon spun around, his hand flying to his Colt, but he froze.
Standing in the low opening of the stone ruins was Harlon Voss himself.
He wasn't wearing a heavy coat. He wore a fine wool Chesterfield overcoat with an astrakhan collar, his hands tucked into leather gloves, looking as calm and immaculately groomed as if he were standing in the lobby of a Denver hotel. Behind him, two armed men stepped out from the flanking walls, their Winestones leveled squarely at Gideon’s chest.
And beside Voss, his head bowed and his coat soaked with snow, stood Isaac Puit.
“You underestimated the telegraph, Gideon,” Voss said softly, his voice carrying an oily, cultured smoothness that made the hair on the back of Gideon’s neck stand up. “A smart man doesn't rely only on riders in the hills when he owns every wire between here and the territorial capital. I knew you were heading for the marshal’s office the moment you pulled that ledger out of my office desk.”
Wya stepped silently in front of Leah, her hand dropping to the Remington tucked in her belt.
“Step away from the wall, Wya,” Voss said, his eyes glittering with cold satisfaction. “You’ve caused me quite enough trouble this week. And as for you, Marsh—hand over the leather book. And maybe, just maybe, I won't have the sheriff charge you with horse theft and highway robbery when we get back to town.”
Gideon looked at Voss, then at Isaac Puit, who wouldn't raise his eyes from the frozen dirt. The silence in the ruined waystation was absolute, save for the wind hissing over the top of the limestone stones.
Gideon didn't reach for his gun. Instead, he slowly reached into his shirt pocket.
He didn't pull out the ledger. He pulled out the folded, yellowed paper he had carried for three agonizing years—the original deed bearing the fake thumbprint of Grey Elk and the signature of Gideon Marsh.
He unfolded it slowly, letting the wind catch the edge of the parchment.
“You want the ledger, Harlon?” Gideon’s voice was dangerously quiet. “You can have it. But before you take it, you’re going to listen to what’s written on this piece of paper—word for word—while every man in this county learns how a wealthy land baron built an empire on stolen ink and bought judges.”
Voss’s polite smile tightened, a sudden flicker of genuine unease crossing his eyes. “You’re a fool, Gideon. That paper is three years old. Nobody cares about an Apache land claim in a Cheyenne court.”
“They will,” a new voice spoke from the shadows behind Voss.
The heavy iron gate of the old waystation swung inward with a loud screech. Stepping out of the gathering twilight came a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the silver star of a federal marshal pinned to a heavy buffalo-hide coat, flanked by four armed deputies with their rifles held at the ready.
May you like
“Because I’ve been looking for that exact piece of paper for six months, Mr. Voss,” the marshal said, his voice ringing like iron across the stone floor. “And it looks like you just walked right into the witness box.”
---
