Chapter 11 - The Magistrate’s Trap
Silas Vance stood frozen behind the magistrate’s bench, his knuckles white against the mahogany surface. The courtroom was so quiet that the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a firing squad loading their rifles.
"Marshal Gallagher," Silas stammered, attempting to recover his authoritative posture, "you are interfering in a county matter. This is an administrative foreclosure under Wyoming territorial jurisdiction. Federal agents have no right—"
"Federal agents have every right when federal mail fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy to commit murder are involved," Sarah spoke up, stepping directly before the wooden rail, her voice ringing clear, steady, and devastatingly poised.
Clara Vanderhoof rose abruptly from the gallery bench, her silver-tipped cane striking the floorboards with sharp fury. "Quiet, you shameless trollop! You think you can walk in here with forged gossip and slander my family's name? Silas, call the guards! Throw this woman in the cellar where she belongs!"
"Let her speak!" a voice called out from the gallery. It was Mr. Higgins, the hardware merchant.
"Aye, let Mrs. Thorne speak!" shouted Mrs. Gable, the valley schoolteacher.
Sarah turned slightly, meeting the gaze of the townspeople who had lived under Silas and Clara's suffocating financial thumb for nearly a decade. She held up the leather-bound ledger found beneath the desk.
"This is Arthur Thorne’s personal accounting," Sarah declared, turning toward Marshal Gallagher. "Within these pages are twenty-two separate bank drafts showing that Clara Vanderhoof and Silas Vance funneled county municipal funds into a private bank account in Chicago. The mortgage they claimed Garrett defaulted on? It was paid in full six years ago. The documents filed in this very office were forged by Silas Vance himself."
Silas reached toward his inner coat pocket with a sudden, panicked lunge, his hand diving toward a hidden derringer pistol.
"Don't do it, Silas!" Garrett roared.
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Before Silas could clear the leather holster, Garrett vaulted over the wooden rail with the lethal speed of a seasoned frontier veteran. His hand clamped down on Vance’s wrist with bone-crushing force, twisting the magistrate’s arm downward. The small pistol discharged harmlessly into the thick timber of the bench, sending wood splinters raining over the floor.
***
