The morning sun hit the Silver River Bridge, casting the shadow of the steel truss long and sharp across the muddy northern bank. The bridge itself was performing flawlessly. The steel did not bow. The timber deck absorbed the rolling weight of the wagons with a dull, rhythmic thud that had quickly become the heartbeat of the valley.
The structure was perfect. The system surrounding it was already failing.
Arthur stood forty yards back from the northern abutment, a slate board resting in the crook of his arm. He wasn't looking at the bridge. He was looking at the queue.
It stretched for a quarter of a mile up the King's Highway. Three dozen merchant wagons, a cluster of local farm carts, and a scattering of travelers on horseback were locked in a slow, grinding crawl. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, ox sweat, and the rising frustration of delayed men.
