Chapter 10 - Shadows at the Altar
The ruins of the Old Mission Church stood like a blackened skeleton against the moonlit snow at the crest of the northern ridge. Charred timber arches rose like ribs against the star-strewn sky, framing the valley below where the lights of Bell Manor blazed in festive, arrogant splendor.
The wind through the broken stone belfry hummed a low, mournful requiem.
Nathaniel, Clara, and Willa emerged from the pine thicket on foot, their breath billowing in frosty plumes. Nathaniel kept his rifle ready, sweeping the shadows among the snow-covered headstones of the overgrown pioneer cemetery.
"Over here," Clara whispered, drawn by an instinct she couldn't explain.
In the center of what had once been the sanctuary lay a massive granite slab, cracked down the center by the great fire of '75. Moss and dead ivy clung to the chiseled letters:
*SAMUEL BELL — BELOVED HUSBAND AND BROTHER — HE SLEEPS IN THE FOUNDATION HE BUILT.*
Nathaniel knelt in the deep drift, wiping away the snow with his gloved hands. He inspected the iron ring set into the corner of the ledger stone. "It’s a vault seal. It hasn't been opened since the day they lowered the casket."
He jammed the iron pry bar he had taken from the rail shed beneath the edge of the stone. "Help me, Clara. Put your weight on it."
Clara leaned her entire body against the iron lever. Nathaniel strained, his veins bulging against his neck, his boots slipping against the frost. With a sickening, grinding shriek of aged stone against stone, the slab shifted.
A blast of stale, dry air rose from the dark rectangular crypt below.
Nathaniel struck a lucifer match and tossed it down. The flame flickered, illuminating a dry, stone-lined chamber. In the center sat an ornate bronze casket, its surface oxidized into a deep verdigris green.
Clara dropped into the crypt without hesitation.
"Clara, wait—" Nathaniel warned, dropping down beside her, while Willa stood guard above the rim, clutching Nathaniel’s revolver in her small hands.
Clara approached the casket. Resting on top of the verdigris bronze was an iron box bearing the official seal of the United States Department of the Interior. It was bound with three heavy lead seals, stamped with the date: *October 14, 1874.*
Beside the box lay a single, dried white rose that had withered to dust twenty years ago, and a handwritten letter sealed with red wax.
Clara picked up the letter. The handwriting was unmistakable—the same delicate, flowing hand that had written to her in Chicago during her childhood: *her mother.*
*To my daughter Clara,* the letter read.
*If you are reading this, Thomas has either hunted me down or I have surrendered to the grave. Know this: this valley was not founded on gold or silver, but on the blood of your father, who wished to give every family in this territory forty acres of fertile soil and freedom from tycoons. The enclosed charter gives you sole ownership of the valley’s water rights and mineral veins. Take it to the Governor. Break his chains. Forgive me for running. I ran so that you might live to strike the final blow.*
Clara pressed the letter to her chest, her eyes burning with fierce, unshed tears. "I have it, Nathaniel. The original federal patent."
"Then we end this," Nathaniel said, reaching for the iron box.
A sharp, hollow sound cut through the winter night.
*Clack.*
Above the crypt, Willa gasped.
Nathaniel and Clara whipped around. Standing at the edge of the open vault, silhouetted against the blinding light of three lantern beams, stood Sheriff Harlan Vance. His jaw was wrapped in bloodied linen, his eyes burning with insane, rabid fury.
Behind him were eight heavily armed deputies, their rifles trained directly down into the pit.
May you like
"End of the line, blacksmith," Vance garbled through his wired teeth, his shotgun aimed right at Clara’s face. "Drop the box, or I blow that girl’s head into the dirt right in front of you."
***
