Chapter 38 - Masks of Treason
The grand ballroom on the second floor was a sea of masks and silk.
Governor Sterling stood near the velvet-draped balcony, holding a crystal glass of champagne, surrounded by four of the territory’s wealthiest mine magnates. The music swelled, a bright, cheerful cadence meant to drown out the distant rumble of the approaching mountain storm and the muffled echoes of military boots patrolling the marble corridors outside.
"To the future of the territory," Sterling proclaimed, raising his glass with an effortless, charming smile. "An era of unfettered industry, free from the meddling bureaucracy of Washington."
The magnates chuckled, raising their glasses in return.
At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom did not open—they were violently kicked off their brass latches with an explosive crack that shattered the music into sudden, terrified screams.
The crowd recoiled, women clutching their skirts, men reaching instinctively for dress swords that were purely ornamental.
Standing in the doorway, framed against the dark corridor, was Clara Vance.
She wore no ball gown. She stood in muddy riding trousers, her wool shirt stained with river clay, her dark hair swept back in a loose braid. In her hand, held at her side with unmistakable intent, was her cocked Colt revolver.
"Governor Sterling," her voice cut through the cavernous ballroom, clear, sharp, and ringing with absolute authority. "The dance is over."
Sterling’s smile vanished, his face draining of color until he looked like a marble statue. "Guards! Seize this woman!"
Four household mercenaries pushed through the terrified guests, raising their shotguns.
Before they could shoulder their weapons, the tall French doors lining the balcony shattered inward in a shower of crystal glass and velvet curtains. Nathaniel Boone and Caleb Vance vaulted into the ballroom like avenging shadows.
Nathaniel’s Winchester barked three times in blistering succession.
*Crack! Crack! Crack!*
The lead guard dropped his weapon, clutching a shattered shoulder; the second guard was thrown backward into a towering pyramid of champagne glasses, sending crystal raining down in a sparkling cascade of wine and blood. Caleb closed the distance to the remaining two with terrifying ferocity, knocking one weapon aside with his forearm and driving a bone-crushing left hook into the second guard's jaw, sending him crashing into the mahogany orchestra riser.
Pandemonium erupted. The socialites screamed, scrambling frantically for the exits, knocking over velvet chairs, overturning tables laden with roasted meats and crystal punch bowls.
Sterling did not try to fight. He dropped his champagne glass, spun on his heel, and bolted through the private side door leading to his executive study, slamming the heavy mahogany bolt behind him.
"Caleb!" Clara shouted.
"I’m on him!" Caleb shouted back.
He sprinted across the ruined ballroom, leaping over broken glass and fallen candelabras, his shoulder slamming into the locked study door with the full, devastating momentum of his body. The ancient hinges groaned, but the heavy oak held.
"Boone! The crowbar!" Caleb yelled.
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"Out of the way!" Nathaniel shouted.
Instead of a crowbar, Nathaniel unhooked a heavy iron brass-studded bench from the wall, swung it with both arms like a battering ram, and drove it directly into the lock. The wood splintered with a sound like a rifle shot, and the double doors burst inward into the darkened study.
