Chapter 10
The bay mare stepped softly out of the livery stable, her hooves muffled by the thick layer of dust and straw that blanketed the floorboards. Eli mounted up behind Clara, wrapping his long legs carefully around the saddle flanks while she held the reins with steady, capable hands. The iron lockbox was strapped securely behind the saddle using a length of sturdy hemp rope Clara had retrieved from the tack room.
"Which way?" Eli asked, his chest pressed close against her back as he scanned the darkened expanse of the prairie stretching out beyond the town limits.
"North toward the ridge," Clara whispered, nudging the mare gently with her heels. "There's an old line-shack my father built before the syndicate took the valley. It's hidden in the cedar break where the horses can't be seen from the trail."
The mare broke into a steady, quiet trot, slipping out of Salt Creek through the back tracks just as the moon began to rise, casting a pale, silver glow over the rugged landscape. The night air was crisp, biting sharply through Eli’s leather jacket and rustling the dry grass along the trail. They rode in silence for over an hour, leaving the dying fires of the settlement far behind them until the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of hooves and the sigh of the wind through the pines.
Eli kept his eyes fixed on their backtrail, watching for any sign of pursuit. The enforcers were mounted, but tracking a single horse across open sandstone and dry creek beds in the dark was a fool's errand unless they had hounds—and Miller’s crew didn't strike him as the hound-handling type. Still, paranoia was a survival trait in the territories; letting your guard down for even a minute was usually the last mistake you ever made.
As the trail began to climb steeply into the rocky foothills, the cedar break appeared like a dark shadow against the pale slopes of the ridge. Clara guided the mare expertly through a narrow gap between two massive boulders, coming to a halt in front of a small, windowless cabin built from weathered logs and native stone.
"Here we are," Clara said softly, pulling back on the reins and dismounting with practiced grace.
Eli slid down from the saddle behind her, his left knee protesting sharply against the sudden impact with the rocky ground. He ignored the pain, stepping forward to secure the mare to a sturdy hitching post near the cabin door while Clara fished a small iron key from her apron pocket and unlocked the heavy wooden padlock.
The door swung open with a dry creak, releasing the stale, cool scent of cedar and old dust. Clara struck a match against the doorframe, lighting a small tallow candle sitting on a rough wooden table inside. The flickering flame illuminated a sparse interior: a narrow cot, a stone hearth, a cast-iron stove, and a sturdy oak desk covered in a thin layer of fine mountain dust.
Eli stepped inside, closing the heavy door behind them and sliding the deadbolt into place. He unbuckled his gun belt, setting it carefully on the table before lifting the iron lockbox down from the saddle and placing it gently beside the candle.
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"Safe for tonight," Eli said, exhaling a long, weary breath that seemed to carry ten years of accumulated burdens out of his lungs.
Clara pulled out a wooden chair and sat down, her hands resting on the edge of the desk. "Now we open the ledger," she said, her voice carrying an unyielding determination that brooked no argument. "And we find out what my father died trying to protect."
