The weight of the morning pressed on him like an iron yoke. The memory of the fresh-turned soil was still raw. The three graves, side by side, marked only with rough stones he’d pulled from the basin.
He could still feel the shovel handle biting into his palms, smell the smoke that clung to their clothes even in death. Now, standing here, hearing talk of railroads and land deals...it all felt twisted. It was like the world had kept on scheming while his had burned to the ground.
He turned away, pulling a small leather pouch from his coat pocket and counting out coins on the counter. The girl watched silently, her eyes flicking between his hands and his face.
As he left the store, the evening air felt cooler. Anthony could feel the weight of the warning settle heavily on hisshoulders. Silver Cross was no longer the quiet town he remembered.
Outside, a group of rough-looking men lounged near the saloon. Their eyes followed Anthony’s every move. Their talk was hushed as he passed, but their stares never left him. The tension in the air was thick, like the smoke from the homestead fire still lingering in his memory.
Anthony made his way to the saloon, the boards creaking beneath his boots. Inside, the smell of whiskey and tobacco smoke hit him immediately. The room was dimly lit by oil lamps. The air was thick with murmurs and the occasional clatter of poker chips.
A barmaid wiped down the counter near the back. She was lean and strong, her hands steady despite the tension in the room. When she caught Anthony’s eye, she gave a slight nod.
He moved to the bar and took a seat on a worn stool. The barmaid approached, setting down a glass of water and a small plate of jerky.
“You look like a man who’s been through hell,” she said quietly.
Anthony took a slow sip of water. His eyes were fixed on the grainy wood of the bar. “You could say that.”
“People here don’t like the railroad sniffing about,” she said.
Anthony’s gaze lifted. “Are you telling me that because you’re afraid, or because you want me to be?”
She shrugged, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Maybe a bit of both,” she replied.
It was the second time today someone had brought up the railroad without him asking. In a town this small, a man could measure its pulse by what came out of people’s mouths. Silver Cross’s heart was pounding with one name:the railroad.
Every glance, every whisper, carried it. Anthony didn’t need a confession to know. The spike left in the ashes, the bullet holes, the way his family’s land sat right in the path of progress. It was all the same story. The railroad had killed them. He felt it as surely as the gun at his hip.
A hush fell over the room as the sheriff entered. His boots were heavy on the floorboards. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and stern-faced, with eyes like cold steel. The murmurs quieted further.
Sheriff Winston Muldoon.
Anthony straightened. The sheriff’s gaze swept over the bar, resting on him for a moment before he nodded curtly and moved to a table in the corner.
Anthony stayed at the bar, the weight of the town’s watchful eyes pressing down on him. He wasn’t here for a friendly visit. Something darker was afoot.
After a few moments, the barmaid leaned closer.
“If you want answers, you’ll have to talk to the sheriff,” she said. “But be careful. He’s loyal to the railroad, if nothing else.”
Anthony nodded slowly, finishing his water. He left a few coins on the bar and stepped outside.
He stood for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of the town settling for the night. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A lantern flickered in a window. But under it all was the quiet tension—the sense that the town was holding its breath, waiting.
Anthony’s mind turned back to the burned homestead, to the bullet holes and the railroad spike left behind. The message was clear.
This was no random act of violence.
The railroad was moving in, and it meant to claim what it wanted by any means necessary.
Chapter 2
The evening was pale and cold over Silver Cross. The sky was a depressing mix of dark watercolor above the cluster of weathered buildings.
The doors of the saloon swung open.
