Chapter 8 - The Ride to Settlement
The morning sun rose over the snow-choked valley like a pale silver disc in a sky the color of old pewter. The temperature had risen slightly—barely into the single digits—making the air sharp enough to freeze the breath in your throat.
Martha stood beside the heavy wooden buckboard, pulling the canvas cinch tight around the belly of the bay gelding while hitching the second harness strap with practiced efficiency. Bundled in layers of thick wool, a heavy buffalo robe, and a canvas coat, she looked twice her size, but her movements were quick and purposeful.
The front door of the farmhouse creaked open.
Colum stepped out onto the porch. He didn't use the broom handle today. Instead, he had fashioned a pair of crude wooden crutches from two stout cedar saplings he had trimmed down the evening before, padding the armrests with strips of old blanket. His face was pale from the exertion, and every movement of his legs was stiff and mechanical, but he was standing on his own two feet.
He lowered himself down the porch steps one agonizing inch at a time, swinging his body forward with a rhythmic, straining heave until he reached the side of the buckboard.
Martha moved to help him, but he raised a gloved hand, stopping her.
“Don't,” he grunted, his teeth clenched as he locked his elbows and hoisted his bulk upward over the wooden wheel, hauling himself onto the bench seat with a heavy thud. He sat there for a moment, chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut against the white-hot flash of pain shooting through his spine, before letting out a long, shuddering breath and taking the leather reins in his thick hands.
“You stubborn mule,” Martha muttered, though there was a deep, involuntary warmth in her voice as she climbed up beside him, pulling the thick buffalo robe over both their laps.
“Takes one to know one,” Colum rasped, flicking the reins.
The wagon groaned, the wooden wheels breaking free from the frozen mud with a sharp crack, and they rolled out past the gate, leaving deep, parallel tracks in the pristine snow of the south road.
The twelve-mile drive to the county settlement took over three hours. The horses walked at a slow, deliberate pace, their breath pluming in thick grey clouds as they navigated the drifts along the creek bottom. As the cluster of weathered wooden buildings, the mercantile, the church steeple, and the county courthouse finally came into view ahead, Martha felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach.
Word traveled fast in a frontier town. By the time they turned the buckboard onto Main Street, pedestrians had stopped on the boardwalks. Men stepped out of the barbershop and the saloon, their conversations dying away into dead silence.
Amos Higgins was standing on the wooden porch of the mercantile, leaning against a hitching post with a toothpick between his teeth. Next to him stood the local sheriff, a heavy-set man with a star pinned to his vest.
Colum didn't look at them. He pulled the team to a smooth halt directly in front of the county courthouse steps, setting the brake lever with a firm pull of his right hand.
Amos pushed off the post, walking slowly toward the wagon, a mocking smile playing across his lips. “Well, look what crawled out of the weeds. Brought your invalid to town for a funeral, Martha?”
Martha didn't wait for him to reach the wheel. She stood up on the buckboard seat, her hand resting firmly on the canvas bag of gold dust at her waist, looking down at the town councilman with absolute, unshakeable dignity.
“No, Amos,” Martha said, her voice carrying clearly down the silent boardwalk. “We came to pay our debts. And then we’re going inside to check the county plat books.”
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The sheriff frowned, stepping forward as Amos’s smile faltered into a hard, suspicious glare. The second half of their war had just been brought right to the courthouse door.
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