Chapter 4
The walk through Salt Creek’s deserted main street felt like moving through a ghost town. The once-bustling hub of timber and trade was now a collection of shuttered storefronts and rotting boardwalks, silent save for the occasional clatter of a loose tin sign swinging in the evening breeze. Eli walked slightly ahead, his right hand resting casually near the butt of his sidearm, eyes scanning every alleyway and darkened doorway. Clara kept pace a half-step behind him, her boots clicking rhythmically against the splintered planks.
They turned down a narrow alley flanked by the charred skeletal remains of the town's hardware store. The smell of wet ash and scorched pine hung heavy in the air, clinging to their clothes like a bad memory. At the rear of the ruin, half-hidden beneath a collapsed canvas awning, lay the heavy oak doors of the cellar.
Eli knelt beside the doors, running his rough fingers over the warped wood. The iron padlock holding the hasp in place was rusted and thick, embedded deep in charred timber that had swollen from the water the bucket brigade had thrown on the fire a week ago.
"It's swelled tight," Eli muttered, pressing his shoulder against the door to test the resistance. The wood didn't budge an inch. "Fire baked the moisture right out of the frame, then the water locked it up solid. We force this without the right leverage, the whole frame's gonna cave in and bury whatever's inside under two tons of rubble."
Clara dropped to her knees beside him, shining the beam of a small, brass-rimmed kerosene lantern she had pulled from her satchel. The flickering yellow light illuminated the scorched grain of the wood and the glint of the rusted iron lock. "There's a crowbar behind the water trough at the livery stable," she whispered. "I saw the blacksmith leave it there yesterday before he packed up his anvil and left town."
Eli looked at her, a faint trace of admiration cutting through his stern features. "You've been mapping out every tool in this settlement, haven't you?"
"You have to survive somehow," she replied simply. "Wait here. I'll get it."
"No," Eli said, catching her wrist with a gentle but unyielding grip. "You stay in the light of this lantern. I'll get the bar. If anyone comes sniffing around this alley while we're working, you whistle twice like a red-tailed hawk. You hear me?"
Clara nodded, her eyes reflecting the small flame of the lantern. "Twice. Like a hawk."
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Eli rose, his joints aching as he slipped down the shadowy corridor of the alley toward the livery stable. The darkness was absolute between the buildings, smelling of old manure, dry hay, and damp earth. He navigated by memory, his hand brushing against rough stone walls until his fingers grazed the cold iron of the water trough. Sure enough, a heavy iron crowbar lay half-buried in the mud behind it. He gripped the tool, feeling its reassuring weight, and turned back toward the hardware store.
As he stepped out from the shadow of the stable, a faint crunch of gravel echoed from the main street. Eli froze, pressing his back flat against the rough brick wall of the apothecary. Through the gap between the buildings, he saw two men carrying rifles walking slowly past the alley entrance. Their coats were long, dark wool, utterly out of place in the frontier heat—the unmistakable uniform of the Denver syndicate's private enforcers.
