CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Oakville was… well, desolate. The would-be main street was nothing more than a hard-packed clay loam with gigantic patches of weeds and grass popping up here and there, a clear indication of a thoroughfare lacking any significant wagon traffic. The road was mostly covered by footprints, the occasional hoofprints of donkeys, horses and mules few and far between, relatively speaking.
“I highly doubt anyone ever referred to this place as home sweet home,” Siegfried remarked dryly. No one berated him as they trudged onward, a collection of sucking sounds their marching generated as the companions’ feet lifted out of encountered stretches of mud upon the road.
“You’ll find the courthouse down the road next to Gorman’s shop,” the man who’d escorted them said briskly. “Gorman’s
