But every jolt sent pain lancing up his thigh. The cold didn't help. March had come in bitter. The kind of cold that settled into bones and stayed there. Old Katie Sowers met them at the edge of town.
His weathered face was grim beneath the brim of his hat. And he fell in beside them without greeting. They've been busy. He said. Railroad filed a claim three days ago.
Hearing set for this afternoon. Silas's jaw tightened. That fast? Railroad's got Judge Brennan in their pocket. Pushed this through faster than anything I've seen.
Katie spat into the mud. Half the town, too. They're promising jobs, commerce, progress. He shook his head. Folks forget what progress costs when they're hungry enough.
The courthouse was a two-story brick building on the main street. Its windows reflecting the pale sky. Silas hadn't been inside a building this size in 12 years. The smell hit him first, bodies and tobacco and ink. The weight of human presence pressing in from all sides.
His chest tightened. His hands found the cane and gripped hard. Clara touched his arm. Just a brush of fingers. There and gone.
He walked forward. The hearing room was smaller than he'd expected. Wooden benches, a raised platform for the judge. A table where Harlan Crane sat with two men in city suits. The railroad's lawyers.
They looked up when Silas entered. Their eyes tracking his halting progress down the aisle. Behind them, against the wall, stood the two hired men from the cabin. One of them younger than the other. With a face weathered beyond his years, looked away when Silas met his eyes.
Judge Brennan was a thick-necked man with gray muttonchops. And eyes that gave nothing away. He watched Silas approach the front bench. Watched Clara take her seat beside him. Watched old Katie settle in the row behind.
Mr. Cade. Brennan's voice was flat. You're here to contest the railroad's claim to your property. I am.
And you have documentation to support your ownership. Clara stood before Silas could answer. She carried the saddle bag to the front of the room, laid it on the table, and began extracting documents with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before. The original deed of sale dated March 1870, witnessed by Katie Sowers, and filed with the county clerk. She laid it flat.
The survey map showing the boundaries as recorded, and our marriage certificate establishing Mr. Cade's legal family status as of September 1882. Crane leaned back in his chair, that thin smile playing at his lips. Your honor, the railroad's position is simple. Mr.
Cade's deed was never properly registered with the territorial land office. Under the Homestead Act amendments of 1879, any parcel lacking federal registration reverts to public domain. The deed was registered. Clara's voice cut across his. I checked the county records this morning.
The filing is there, dated April 1870, with the clerk's stamp and signature. A county filing is not a federal filing, Mrs. Cade. No. But it establishes prior claim.
She pulled another document from the bag. This is a copy of the federal registration obtained by telegraph from the Helena office earlier this week. Mr. Cade's property was registered in June of 1873, months after the county filing. Something flickered in Crane's eyes.
He reached for the document, scanned it, and his smile faltered. This could be forged. It could be. Clara didn't move. But it matches the records in Helena exactly.
The clerk there was kind enough to confirm by wire. Brennan leaned forward. Mr. Crane, do you have evidence that this document is falsified? Crane's mouth opened, closed.
One of his lawyers whispered something in his ear. We would need time to verify. You've had 3 months since your first visit to Mr. Cade's property. Clara's voice remained level.
That seems like adequate time to verify federal records. She paused. Unless the railroad never expected to find any. The room went quiet. Silas watched Crane's face.
The man was sweating now, a fine sheen across his forehead, though the room wasn't warm. His eyes darted to his lawyers, to the judge, to the document in his hands. Your honor, Crane said. The railroad's claim is based on based on what? Exactly.
Clara reached into the saddlebag and withdrew one more paper. This is the document you presented to my husband in February. The one with the territorial government seal. She laid it on the judge's bench. The seal is blue ink.
Brennan looked at it, looked at Crane. Federal seals have been printed in red ink since 1875, Clara said. Any clerk who's handled government documents would know that. She turned to face Crane directly. But you weren't counting on a clerk, were you?
You were counting on a man alone on a mountain. A man with no family, no connections, no one to check your paperwork. Crane's face had gone gray. Your honor, this is she's twisting she's asking a question. Brennan's voice had changed, harder now.
Where did this document come from? Mr. Crane. The silence stretched.