The landscape was a study in desolation. The sagebrush was brittle, snapping under the horse's hooves. They camped in hollows, sleeping back to back under a canvas tarp, taking turns to watch the dark horizon. They were not just fighting the cold. They were hunted.
Every shadow on a ridge looked like a rider. Every distant coyote howl sounded like a signal. When they finally rode into Cheyenne, the town felt like an assault on the senses. It was bigger than Red Rock, louder, and dirtier. Coal smoke hung low over the streets, mixing with the smell of unwashed bodies and manure.
They stabled the horses and walked toward the courthouse. Clara brushed the travel dust from her skirt, but she knew it was futile. She looked worn. Her dress was mended, her boots scuffed beside her. Eli looked like a scarecrow made of wire and leather.
His eyes sunk deep in his head. They entered the office of the district attorney. It was a warm room, paneled in dark wood that smelled of beeswax. A clerk sat behind a high desk, scribbling in a ledger. He did not look up when the bell above the door chimed.
"Excuse me," Eli said, removing his hat. The clerk continued to write. "We are here to see Mr. Thorne," Eli said louder. The clerk paused, dipping his pen.
He looked up, his eyes sliding over Eli and landing on Clara. He took in her frayed shawl. The wind burned flush on her cheeks. The way she stood slightly behind the man. He curled his lip.
"Mister Thorne is busy with respectable clients," the clerk said, returning to his paper. Deliveries go to the back alley. Clara felt the heat rise in her neck, the familiar burn of shame. She started to turn away, the instinct to hide kicking in. Eli's hand slammed onto the desk.
The inkwell jumped. My wife is not a delivery, Eli said. His voice was not a shout. It was a landslide. She is Mrs.
Eli Kincaid, and you will look her in the eye when you speak to her. The clerk recoiled, his face paling. The door to the inner office opened, and a man stepped out. Marcus Thorne was not what Clara expected. He was a man who looked like he had not slept in a week.
His vest was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and his gray hair stood up in tufts as if he had been pulling at it. He held a pair of spectacles in one hand. "What is the noise? " Thorne asked, his voice weary. "We have evidence of fraud and theft against Harlan Pike," Eli said, turning to him. "And we have proof of judicial corruption in Red Rock. " Thorne stopped wiping his glasses.
He looked at Eli. really looked at him, measuring the desperation and the resolve. Then he looked at Clara. Pike, Thorne muttered. I have been trying to nail that coffin for 2 years. Come in the office.