Holloway's words hung in the air like gun smoke. *"You willing to stand up to men who settle arguments with lead instead of law?"*
Eli swallowed. He'd read about frontier justice—quick, brutal, and often final. But reading wasn't the same as staring into the eyes of a man who had lived it.
"I didn't come here to hide behind a desk," Eli said, forcing his voice steady.
The judge leaned back in his creaking chair, studying him. "Good. Because Silver Ridge don't need another man who flinches at the sound of a gunshot." He gestured to a chair. "Sit."
Eli did, perching on the edge as Holloway pulled a bottle and two tin cups from a drawer. He poured a finger of amber liquid into each and slid one across the desk.
"You know why I asked for a lawyer?" Holloway asked.
Eli took the cup but didn't drink. "Because the territory's applying for statehood. You need courts, records, proper trials."
Holloway smirked. "That's the pretty reason. The real one? The mining bosses own the sheriff, the land, and half the men who aren't drunk in the gutter by sundown. I need someone who ain't afraid to piss 'em off."
Eli's grip tightened on the cup. "And if I say no?"
"Then you catch the next train out." Holloway shrugged. "But you didn't ride all this way just to turn back, did you?"
A shout erupted from the street outside, followed by the sharp crack of a gunshot. Eli flinched—just slightly—but the judge's eyes caught it.
Holloway sighed. "First lesson, Dawson. In Silver Ridge, the law's only as strong as the man enforcing it. You hesitate, you die." He drained his cup. "You still in?"
Eli set his jaw. He hadn't come here to be another Easterner who couldn't handle the West. He downed the whiskey in one burning gulp and met Holloway's gaze.
"I'm in."
The judge grinned, sharp as a blade. "Good. Then let's get to work."
Outside, another shot rang out. Somewhere in the distance, a man laughed. Silver Ridge wasn't waiting—and neither was the law.