Chapter 4 - The Sheriff's Secret
Caleb lunged forward, slicing the dirty rag away from the captive sheriff’s mouth with the blade of his hunting knife. The man gasped greedily for air, coughing violently as he slumped forward against the tight ropes binding his wrists to the heavy pine support beam.
"Get me out of here!" the sheriff rasped, his voice cracked and raw. "They're still in the house! They're watching every move you make!"
"Who's in the house?" Caleb demanded, keeping one eye on the wooden stairs leading back up to the saloon. He sliced through the thick hemp ropes around the sheriff’s wrists, helping the older man stagger to his feet.
The sheriff rubbed his raw wrists, his eyes darting frantically toward the dark corners of the cellar. "Not people, Caleb. Not regular folks. Those little girls you brought in off the street... they ain't survivors. They're the collectors."
Caleb froze, his hand still gripping the handle of his revolver. "Explain yourself, Sheriff. Right now."
"Ten years ago, after the gold panic, half this county went broke," the sheriff whispered, leaning heavily against the wooden beam for support. "Men started trading more than just claims. They started trading bloodlines to keep the mines open. A syndicate out of Denver bought the souls of Red Creek. That fire up on the ridge three nights ago? That wasn't an accident. The mother tried to run away with the twins. She tried to take them back to Missouri."
Caleb’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Missouri. The ranch where his own family had been wiped out a decade ago.
"My sister," Caleb whispered, the words tearing out of his throat. "Elena..."
The sheriff looked up, his face pale and sickly in the dim light of the single tallow candle. "Elena was the bookkeeper for the syndicate. She tried to burn their ledgers before they could collect. But the syndicate didn't die in that fire. They just... duplicated. Those twins aren't just children, Caleb. They're copies of Elena's girls, grown in the dark to lure you back to the exact spot where the debt was signed."
Before Caleb could process the horrifying weight of the confession, the cellar door overhead slammed shut with a deafening crash. A heavy iron bolt slid into place from the outside, locking them into the subterranean darkness.
Simultaneously, a small, rhythmic tapping began against the cellar door—three sharp raps, followed by a child’s high-pitched giggle that echoed down the wooden stairs.
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"Open the door, Uncle Caleb," a sweet voice called out from the dark. "We brought you your dinner."
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