America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 69 A Dying Struggle

"You've been reported for allegedly illegally acquiring and seizing land, Harry Covington!"

Tom's words struck Covington like a bullet, making him freeze in shock.

"Who are you?" Covington's voice turned somber.

Tom didn't answer directly, his gaze casually sweeping around, a faint smile playing on his lips: "Are you sure you want to talk here?"

Covington stared at Tom with a sinister look for a few seconds, then glanced at the old sheriff beside him, snorted, and stepped aside: "Come in!"

creak.

The heavy wooden door was pushed open, and a strong, mixed smell assaulted my senses: the acrid aroma of burning pine resin and the greasy smell of food scraps, all blended together into a rich, pungent odor of survival.

The light was scarce and dim, relying entirely on the orange flames of the fireplace frantically licking the firewood and the dim yellow glow of a few kerosene lamps struggling and flickering.

Underfoot was a thick, rough wooden floor that made a dull thud when stepped on.

The four walls are bare, unadorned logs, with cracks from the years crawling across their surface like twisted earthworms.

Only around the fireplace and on a few prominent walls were there objects that symbolized power and conquest:

Two rifles, one Winchester and one double-barreled shotgun.

Gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen, they hung crossed above the fireplace, the muzzles of the guns subtly pointing towards the door, ready to be deployed at any moment.

A brightly colored Navajo blanket is not only a warm garment, but also a silent badge of wealth.

The enormous deer head and the ferocious bison horn specimens silently roared at their master's bravery and conquest.

fireplace!

A huge stone fireplace dominates the center of the entire wall.

The thick, sturdy log fireplace mantel was piled high with the remnants of life and war preparations: dusty brass candlesticks and gunpowder horns filled with deadly black powder.

In front of the fireplace, several sturdy, almost clumsy wooden chairs or rough tree stump stools surround the only source of heat.

In the center of the room, next to a heavy, scarred wooden table, there was only a row of lonely sofas.

The leather cushion looks very comfortable.

At this moment, all attention is focused on the tabletop:

A thick, open ledger lay beside a half-dry ink bottle and a reclining fountain pen, its nib gleaming faintly in the dim light.

"I am a Secret Service agent, and the sheriff has verified my identity." Tom stated his identity as soon as he sat down.

Covington laughed as if he'd heard the biggest joke in the world: "Hahaha! The Secret Service? The Treasury Department's team investigating counterfeit money?"

The tension from moments before vanished instantly, and he leaned back on the sofa with a relaxed expression. "When did you start eyeing land acquisitions? I think you're all liars!"

Tom didn't care at all, casually pulled a stack of papers from his pocket, and slammed them on the table: "Statements from the cowboys who work for you! They've all put their fingerprints on them."

Covington's relaxed expression froze instantly, his eyes sharpening: "Where are they?"

Tom said casually, "They robbed me of my money at gunpoint, and now... they're swinging on Postman's gallows."

Covington narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Tom, his teeth clenched: "You want to take my land!" He knew this tactic all too well.

"Take your land? Is that really your land?!" the old sheriff roared, his spittle almost splashing onto Tom's face.

"The land office has approved it! Who can say otherwise!" Covington retorted forcefully.

Tom dismissively replied, "The evidence is conclusive. Want to explain? Save that for the judge."

"Of course I'll tell the judge! But you? Robbers! Liars!" Covington glanced at the sheriff with disdain, as if to say: Where did you find these greenhorns to con me?

"You're the robber! You seized your ranch! You drove them away, threatened them, and even killed them!"

The old sheriff's eyes were filled with ruthlessness.

Tom frowned.

The sheriff was imposing, but his words carried a hint of pretense.

"Right now," Tom turned to Covington, his voice cold and hard, "this ranch is no longer fit for you. Pack your things and leave!"

"Hahaha!" Covington laughed in exasperation at the order.

In the western wilderness, someone wants to use the law to kick him out of his ranch?

That's an absolute joke!

Is a secret agent investigating counterfeit money really taking himself too seriously?

"This is my territory! My ranch! You're the ones who should get out! Otherwise..." Covington's voice carried the chill of an ultimatum.

"Your men have testified that you illegally seized the land! There are witnesses too! Harry Covington, are you defying the law?"

Tom pressed on, each word like a hammer blow to Covington's heart, "You're going to rebel against the Secret Service? You're going to betray the federal government?"

"You're slandering me..." Covington was about to retort.

"Then obey the law! Leave for now! Once the judge declares you innocent, the ranch will be returned to you!" Tom's casual words completely ignited Covington's anger.

Leave? Hand over the ranch? He's already on the gallows! We can't leave in such a humiliating way!

His gaze suddenly shot toward the door, his throat bobbing, as if he was about to shout.

boom!

Gunshots rang out!

Covington's eyes widened suddenly, an expression of disbelief froze on his face, and he slumped heavily onto the sofa.

Before the echo of the gunshot had even faded, the sheriff had already rushed outside, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Covington Rancher has committed suicide out of guilt!"

Inside the room, Tom expressionlessly pulled a revolver from under the table and quickly shoved it into Covington's powerless hand.

He glanced at the sheriff's retreating figure and muttered, "Too slow."

He then grabbed Covington's warm, blood-stained fingers and slammed them down onto the stack of prepared documents.

Having done all this, Tom walked to the door, abruptly pulled open the heavy wooden door, and with just the right amount of regret on his face, announced to the astonished cowboys outside, "Unfortunately, he couldn't accept reality and shot himself!"

Covington's men burst into the room, their eyes fixed on the gradually cooling corpse on the sofa.

suicide?

That posture, that angle... it doesn't look like it at all!

The sheriff shouted "suicide out of fear of punishment," and now they are drawing their guns, which is openly defying law enforcement and makes them criminals!

"I need a witness to prove that Mr. Covington did indeed commit suicide." Tom took out a blank sheet of paper that he had prepared beforehand and calmly handed it to the returning sheriff.

Without the slightest hesitation, the sheriff took the pen, quickly signed his name, and then handed the paper to his deputies behind him without looking up.

The deputies exchanged glances, but ultimately remained silent and signed their names one by one.

Tom took back the paper covered in signatures, carefully folded it, and tucked it securely into his pocket.

Tom and the sheriff's eyes met briefly in the air. Without a word, they both understood each other's meaning, and the plan was set.

Just as Tom had predicted, when he sensed the sheriff's barely suppressed hatred for Covington, he decisively forced him to confront him.

It turns out that the previous owners of this ranch were all old buddies of the sheriff, but Covington used every means to drive them away and even died mysteriously in the ditch.

Lacking conclusive evidence, the sheriff was filled with rage but had no way to deal with Covington.

Tom's appearance was like a pillow being delivered to someone who was sleepy!