Chapter 2 - The Weight of Silver
The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty stretch of Red Creek, turning the air into a shimmering mirage of heat and copper. Caleb stared at the wooden barrel, his breath catching in his throat. Resting atop the jagged gray stones was an old, tarnished silver locket shaped like a heart. It was dented on the left side, exactly where his own sister’s locket had been dented the night their farm in Missouri was raided ten years ago.
The bartender scoffed behind him, wiping his greasy hands on his apron. "Recognize it, do you? Course you do. Every bounty hunter from here to the panhandle carries a ghost in his pocket. But that ain't yours, stranger. That belongs to the ash heap."
Caleb reached out slowly, his calloused fingers brushing against the cold metal of the locket. He lifted it from the rocks. The hinge was broken, revealing a scrap of faded paper tucked inside instead of a portrait. He squinted against the glaring light, unfolding the tiny square with trembling fingers. Written in hurried, frantic ink was a single line: They aren't my daughters, Caleb. Run.
A cold sweat broke out across the back of Caleb's neck, despite the searing heat. He looked down at the twin girls. They weren't looking at him anymore. Both of them were staring blankly at the swinging doors of the Lucky Star Saloon, their small mouths parted in identical, chilling grins.
"Where did you get this?" Caleb demanded, turning back to the bartender, but the man was already backing away, his hand sliding toward a double-barreled shotgun leaning against the saloon pillar.
"I didn't put it there," the bartender muttered, his voice suddenly stripped of its bluster, replaced by genuine terror. "A man in a black duster tossed it into the barrel an hour before you rode into town. Said it was a receipt. Said you'd come looking for answers, but all you'll find in Red Creek is a shallow grave."
Before Caleb could draw his iron or demand a name, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the second-story window of the hotel across the street. Caleb instinctively dropped into a low crouch, pulling the two little girls down with him behind the sturdy wooden barrel. A heavy rifle bullet splintered the top rim of the barrel, sending sharp wood shards raining down over their dark, matted hair.
The girls didn't scream. They didn't even flinch. Instead, the twin on the right reached out and touched Caleb's scarred cheek with a tiny, ice-cold hand.
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"He's waiting in the cellar," the girl whispered, her voice sounding far too old for a five-year-old child.
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