Chapter 57 - The Deluge of Ice and Fire
The spark from the friction igniter flared white-hot against the pitch-black night, catching the powder train with a sharp, hissing hiss.
The cavalry sergeant pulled the trigger of his carbine in the same fraction of a second. The muzzle flash blossomed from the barrel, the heavy lead slug tearing through the heavy wool of Caleb’s coat, slicing a burning furrow along his left ribs before smacking into the solid oak beam behind him. Caleb didn't flinch. He threw his entire body sideways across the icy catwalk, diving toward the rock face as the timber beneath him shuddered.
Then the mountain roared.
Four sticks of high-grade mining dynamite detonated in unison within the mortise joint of the sluice gate. The shockwave ripped through the narrow gorge like a physical hammer, blowing out the heavy hemlock timbers into splintered matchsticks. A concussive punch slammed Caleb against the granite cliff, driving the breath from his lungs and rattling his teeth in his skull.
Behind the splintered gate, thousands of tons of dammed, slush-thick water and jagged sheets of river ice had been waiting for sixty years. Released all at once, the frozen reservoir erupted down the flume chute. It was not a stream; it was an avalanche of black water, three-foot-thick slabs of ice, and shattered timber hurtling downward with the speed of an express locomotive.
Down on the ridge, General Sterling had barely lowered his saber after the first cannon discharge when the mountain seemed to split open above his head.
"Look out!" a gunner screamed, abandoning the ramrod and bolting toward the pine woods.
The deluge hit the artillery shelf with catastrophic violence. A towering wall of white foam and crushing ice slammed into the two brass Napoleon howitzers, tearing the heavy iron caissons from their moorings as if they were made of tin. Horses shrieked as the torrent swept them into the rocky abyss below. Men scrambled for high ground, but the sheer momentum of the water carried half the battery into the canyon, extinguishing torches, smashing timber barricades, and burying the artillery position under twenty feet of churning ice and pulverized rock.
High on the catwalk remnants, Caleb hung by one arm from an iron tie-rod, the freezing spray soaking his hair and freezing instantly against his skin. Across the sheared platform, the sergeant who had shot at him was gone, swallowed by the drop.
From the tree line below, Clara’s twin Colts began to bark.
"Advance!" her voice cut through the thundering rumble of the falling flood. "Cut off their retreat to the supply road! Don't let Sterling reform the line!"
The miners poured out from the cedar shadows, their rifles cracking in a coordinated crossfire that pinned the surviving cavalrymen against the sheer rock face. Sterling’s orderly line had vanished into a desperate scramble for survival. The artillery was destroyed, the gorge was choked with flood debris, and the hunters had suddenly become the prey.
Caleb hauled himself up onto the remaining granite ledge, his ribs screaming in agony with every shallow breath. He dragged his Winchester forward, his eyes scanning the chaotic swirl of smoke, snow, and rushing water below. Through the churning fog, he caught sight of a gilded officer’s coat and a drawn saber.
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Sterling was still alive. And he was rallying his surviving dragoons toward the only escape route left: the narrow, fortified defile leading to the Sector Nine iron mine.
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