Chapter 7
Eli froze, every muscle in his body locking into position as the amber light from the lantern flickered against the damp stone walls. The muffled voices above were unmistakable—rough, urgent, and dangerously close.
"Miller, check the latch! Someone snapped the padlock clean off," a harsh voice called out from the darkness of the alleyway.
"I told you the girl didn't do it alone," Miller’s voice growled in response. "Nobody in this ghost town has the muscle to rip that much oak without a crowbar. They're down there right now."
Clara’s eyes widened in sudden terror, her hand instinctively grabbing Eli’s forearm. She didn't scream or cry out; her breathing merely hitched, shallow and fast, as she pressed her back hard against the damp earthen wall.
Eli didn't hesitate. He slammed the iron lid of the lockbox shut, grabbed the leather handle, and tucked the heavy ledger securely inside his leather jacket. He scanned the cellar with a lightning-fast sweep of his eyes, searching for a secondary exit—a coal chute, an old ventilation vent, anything that offered a way out besides the main stairway where the enforcers were now looming over the opening.
"There's no other way out," Clara whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to stay composed. "The foundation is solid stone on all four sides."
"Then we don't go out," Eli muttered, his voice cold and steady. He pulled his Colt revolver from its holster with his right hand, spinning the cylinder with a silent, practiced flick of his thumb to check the loads. "We make 'em come down to us, or we find a dark corner and wait for them to make the first mistake."
Above them, heavy boots began to descend the wooden ladder with slow, deliberate creaks. The beam of a heavy-duty electric flashlight cut through the dark cellar like a white dagger, sweeping wildly across the dirt floor, the charred shelves, and the remaining boxes of ruined merchandise.
"Vance!" Miller shouted down into the darkness, his voice echoing off the stone walls with an aggressive, taunting edge. "I know you're down there hiding with the girl. Hand over the ledger and the box, and maybe we let you walk out of Salt Creek with your boots still on. Try anything clever, and we fill this little hole with more lead than you can carry."
Eli stepped slightly in front of Clara, shielding her small frame with his broad shoulders, keeping his pistol lowered and pointed at the bottom of the ladder. He didn't raise his voice; he let the dead silence of the subterranean room amplify his calm, dangerous response.
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"You're a long way from Denver, Miller," Eli called out, his voice echoing back up with chilling composure. "And that ledger isn't yours to trade. If you want it, you're going to have to come down here and take it out of my dead hands."
A heavy silence followed his words, broken only by the angry buzzing of a trapped beetle near the lantern flame. Eli knew the standoff wouldn't last. Miller and his partner weren't men for parley; they were hired guns who solved problems with finality. He needed a distraction, and he needed it before the second enforcer reached the bottom of the rungs.
