SWDnovel Chapter 68 Tom's Other Identity
Chapter 68 Tom's Other Identity
"Lee White..." he slowly uttered the name, looked up at Tom, and said with a hint of confirmation in his voice, "Secret Service agent."
Tom nodded slightly: "We received a report that this so-called Covington family rancher was suspected of illegally annexing and seizing land. We were ordered to arrest him, but he resisted arrest, so I had no choice but to retaliate in accordance with the law."
His explanation was concise and powerful.
The sheriff's face remained expressionless, clearly not believing a word of Tom's story.
He slowly pushed the ID and badge back to Tom.
"He's not Covington himself," the sheriff said with a calm, knowing tone, "just a ranch agent who handles the day-to-day affairs for the owner."
He stood up, took two glasses from the cabinet, poured amber-colored whiskey into them, and pushed one of them toward Tom.
Tom didn't move.
The sheriff took a sip of his drink and continued, "The real Covington... is a wealthy businessman from the East who bought a large tract of land and built a ranch a few years ago. Now..."
He paused, seemingly emphasizing the scale, "A full twenty thousand acres. He himself lives deep within the ranch, with a dozen or so bodyguards. I heard... he's taking the train back to New York tomorrow."
Tom leaned back in his chair, his fingertips tapping unconsciously on the armrest.
He stared at the sheriff's wrinkled yet unusually calm face, his mind filled with doubt: How did this old sheriff know so much about Covington's background and itinerary?
As Tom and the old sheriff stepped out of the police station side by side, they instantly became the focus of the entire town of Bozeman. Countless gazes pierced them like needles.
"Robbery case, the criminals were brought to justice on the spot!" The old sheriff's voice was not loud, but it was like a stone thrown into a stagnant pool, stirring up a deathly silence.
He nodded slightly to his deputy, and immediately someone stepped forward to drag away the several cold corpses on the ground.
"Leave the bartender here!" Tom's voice was firm and unwavering.
The sheriff's deputy glanced at his old superior, and after receiving an approving look, silently stepped back.
And so, under the complex gazes of the residents of Bozeman, the Covington Ranch agent and those arrogant cowboys were roughly dragged onto the cold gallows!
The town hadn't witnessed such a scene, imbued with a primal, brutal aura, in far too long.
The ropes tightened, creaking, and several lifeless bodies were hoisted high into the air, suspended in mid-air.
As the autumn breeze blew by, the corpses swayed lifelessly in the wind like broken dolls, casting eerie shadows.
Tom mounted his horse, his eyes sharp as an eagle's.
He glanced at the old sheriff and his deputy, who had also mounted their horses, and then at Zach beside him.
"Go!" After the brief and powerful command, several fast horses sped off like arrows, heading straight for Covington Ranch.
The old sheriff was right. Covington's ranch was enormous, a full 20,000 acres!
As far as the eye can see, the withered yellow grass rolls and surges toward the horizon, seemingly without end.
Although it was late autumn and the grass was withered and yellow, the thick meadows still silently testified to the amazing fertility of this land.
On the edge of Montana’s boundless tawny grasslands, a wooden house stands like a black reef growing from the depths of the earth. It is by no means an elegant dwelling, but rather a rough fortress built to survive in the wilderness.
The fortress is made of giant, unpolished pine logs.
The harsh winds of time have long since eroded away most of the bark, revealing the dark brown wood beneath, covered with deep cracks like the scars on a warrior's body.
The logs are not tightly fitted together; they are filled with a grayish-white, hard, stone-like "mud," a product of clay, grass clippings, and wind-dried mixture, which tightly seals every crack that could allow cold wind or rodents to get in.
The roof is a nearly vertical, steep slope at an angle of almost 45 degrees, its only feature against Montana’s scorching winters and heavy snow.
The thick layer of hay was compacted and covered, with the edges roughly tied and secured with rough wooden strips and thick hemp rope. Some of the hay was already charred black, silently recording the repeated onslaught of rain, snow, wind, and frost.
The log cabins are low and sturdy, exuding a heavy sense of weight, and are usually only one and a half stories high.
Doors and windows are obvious weaknesses, so they were designed to be small and indestructible.
The narrow windows are fitted with glass that is slightly distorted due to being hand-blown, or more commonly, they are covered with translucent oil-soaked animal hides. Light enters sparingly, but on stormy, snowy nights, it can hold onto the precious warmth inside the house.
The heavy wooden door was wrapped in anti-split iron strips, and huge iron hinges and bolts locked it firmly. The high threshold was like a low dam, stubbornly blocking the snow and crawling insects that tried to rush in.
On one side of the roof, a rough-hewn stone chimney stubbornly pierces the sky, ceaselessly spewing out the smoke that sustains life.
In front of the house, neatly stacked chopped firewood is piled on a small log porch, exuding a primitive yet practical atmosphere.
Tom reined in his horse, a barely perceptible look of surprise flashing in his eyes.
He never imagined that Covington, with its vast grasslands, would be home to such a rugged and primitive place!
What's even more striking is that next to the main house stand two similarly designed wooden houses.
Tom's gaze swept over them, and he knew immediately that they must be shelters prepared for the cowboys who were either guests or employees.
At this point, Tom, Covington Rancher's bodyguard, looks more like a cowboy.
They stopped Tom and his group.
"Call your rancher over here!" the old sheriff ordered.
The cowboys didn't care; instead, they watched Tom with great interest.
Clearly, they were unaware of the bustling activity in the town.
The rancher pushed open the door and saw the two sides facing off.
"Sheriff, I didn't expect to see you here again. Have you found new accomplices this time?"
squeak-
The mottled wooden door was pushed open, and a shrewd-looking middle-aged man strode out.
He was sucking hard on the dark brown "Dannaman Glory" between his fingers.
That cigar was a work of art.
The dark brown skin of the eggplant is glossy and smooth, with subtle leaf vein patterns visible through it, as if it were wrapped in fine leather.
He held the middle section of the eggplant firmly with his thumb and forefinger, which were adorned with gemstone rings, feeling the firm yet elastic texture on his fingertips.
At the base of the tomato, a ring of burning charcoal glowed red, like molten agate. With his short, powerful drags, the ring of fire flickered, greedily devouring the tobacco leaves.
Each inhale and exhale brought forth a rich, mellow white smoke, carrying a complex aroma of roasted nuts, dark chocolate, and a hint of spicy wood, enveloping his well-maintained square jaw.
He was smoking very heavily.
With each inhale, the masseter muscles in his cheeks tightened and sunken, his Adam's apple bobbed, pressing the pungent smoke deep into his chest.
The grayish-white ash had accumulated to nearly two inches long, stubbornly clinging to the cigarette. With a slight twitch of his wrist, fine cracks appeared at the tip of the ash, yet it refused to fall off—a sign of a top-quality cigarette.
Until the long piece of cigarette ash finally gave way, silently breaking and falling, leaving a grayish-white stain on the front of his expensive black wool coat.
He didn't care at all, he just brought the cigar to his lips, took a deep drag, let the spicy and hot smoke swirl in his lungs for a moment, and then slowly exhaled.
At just one glance, Tom knew that this person was no ordinary individual!