Chapter 11 - The Lion’s Den
"Drop the iron, Nathaniel," Vance slurred, cocking the hammers of the double-barrel. "Bell wants the box intact. He didn't say nothing about your girl."
Nathaniel slowly lowered his rifle, setting it gently into the dirt beside Samuel Bell’s casket. His jaw was set, every muscle in his frame coiled like a spring awaiting release. "Let Willa go, Vance. She’s seven years old. She doesn't have anything to do with this."
Vance laughed—a wet, disgusting gurgle through his shattered jaw. "Bell’s orders. Nobody leaves this ridge alive except the papers. Toss the box up, Cross. Now!"
Clara looked down at the iron box in her hands. Then she looked up into Vance’s bloodshot eyes.
"You want the box, Sheriff?" Clara said, her voice eerily calm, ringing with authority that belonged to her bloodline. "Come down and get it."
Before Vance could react, Clara hurled the heavy iron box not upward, but directly into the open hearth-vent at the base of the crypt—a narrow flue that plunged sixty feet down through the mountain's limestone fissures into the abandoned ventilation shaft of the Bell Consols Mine.
The box tumbled into the dark void, clattering against the rock walls as it plummeted into the abyss.
"You stupid bitch!" Vance roared, swinging the barrel toward Clara.
Nathaniel exploded upward.
He lunged out of the pit like a demon, catching the barrels of Vance’s shotgun with both hands and shoving them violently toward the sky. The blast detonated, orange fire illuminating the ruined stone arches, showering sparks over the snow.
Nathaniel drove his shoulder into Vance’s midsection, carrying both of them over the rim of the crypt and crashing into the frozen earth.
"Run, Clara! Take Willa and the horses!" Nathaniel shouted, grappling with the massive lawman in the snow.
Clara scrambled out of the vault. Two deputies lunged forward to seize her, but Clara didn't run. She snatched Nathaniel’s discarded Winchester from the edge of the pit, spun on her heel, and fired without hesitation.
The heavy bullet tore through the shoulder of the nearest deputy, sending him sprawling into the brush. The other hesitated, stunned by the sheer ferocity of the young woman in the ruined wedding clothes.
"Willa, to the timber!" Clara yelled.
The little girl darted like a rabbit into the dense spruce. But as Clara turned to cover Nathaniel, she saw Vance draw a hidden derringer from his boot.
"Nathaniel! Look out!"
A muffled pop echoed across the ridge.
Nathaniel stiffened. A dark stain bloomed across the front of his wool coat. He collapsed onto one knee, his breath hitching, his hand clutching his side.
Vance scrambled to his feet, blood dripping from his wired jaw, his eyes manic. He raised the iron pry bar above Nathaniel’s head, ready to deliver the fatal blow.
"Die, you stubborn son of a—"
A deafening rifle shot shattered the night from the cemetery gates.
Vance’s head snapped sideways. The iron bar dropped from his hands as he crumpled lifeless into the deep drift.
Standing at the cemetery gate, holding a smoking buffalo rifle, was Agnes. Beside her stood two dozen armed men—blacksmiths, teamsters, and miners from the town, their faces grim and soot-streaked, wearing white armbands of rebellion.
"The miners have taken the town depot, Clara!" Agnes called out, her voice cutting through the smoke. "The Governor’s train is at the station! If we're going to strike the head off the snake, it happens now!"
Clara rushed to Nathaniel’s side. She dropped to her knees, tearing open his coat. The bullet had caught him in the ribs, but it hadn't pierced the lung; the brass locket in his vest pocket had deflected the lead, shattering the miniature of Eleanor Bell but saving Nathaniel’s life.
Nathaniel groaned, coughing as he looked into Clara’s tear-filled eyes. He managed a ragged, defiant smile.
"I told you... I don't die easy," he whispered, grabbing her hand.
May you like
Clara hauled him to his feet, draping his heavy arm over her shoulder. "We have a party to attend, Nathaniel. And I believe I owe my uncle a dance."
***
