In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything
My hand instinctively moved to the Remington at my hip, but the sound of the boots didn’t stop at the door. They continued past, halting abruptly at the chapel’s main entrance. A moment later, a polite but insistent rapping echoed through the quiet night.
I hesitated, then looked at Nalin. Her eyes shifted from me to the door, then back again. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
I moved to the door, pressing my ear against the rough-hewn timber.
“Silas? You in there, Brand?” a voice called out, raspy from desert dust. “It’s Blythe. Thomas Blythe.”
Thomas Blythe. The San Francisco reporter. I’d seen him around the settlement, a rail-thin man with spectacles and a perpetual scowl, always scribbling in a notebook. He’d arrived a few days before me, asking too many questions about land titles and church finances.
I pulled back the deadbolt, just enough to crack the door.
Blythe stood on the porch, a thin coat pulled tight against the desert chill. He held no rifle, just a satchel clutched tight. His eyes, magnified by his spectacles, darted past me to the dark interior of the lockup.
“Heard Kincaid was keeping a captive,” Blythe whispered, leaning closer. “Not my usual beat, but… this place stinks of something more than just sagebrush and sermons.”
He didn’t seem interested in Nalin as a person, but as a symptom.
“What do you want, Blythe?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Kincaid’s got more secrets than a prairie dog has holes,” he said, pulling a sheaf of papers from his satchel. “And bigger ambitions than just saving souls.”
He unfolded several flimsy sheets, the faint script barely legible in the dim light. They were telegraph copies, official-looking, with San Francisco Chronicle letterhead.
“These came by wire to my paper,” Blythe explained, jabbing a finger at a particular line. “They confirm what I suspected. Elder Kincaid, the holy prophet of New Zion, laundered twelve thousand dollars in stolen California railway bonds through his church accounts.”
My eyes widened. Twelve thousand dollars. That was enough to buy a small town, let alone a dusty settlement in the Gila.
“He built this whole New Zion on stolen money,” Blythe continued, his voice tight with professional outrage. “And I aim to prove it. I’m after his master ledger, the real books, not the ones he shows the flock.”
He shoved the papers into my hand.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars, Silas,” he offered, his eyes darting around the empty square. “Twenty dollars in real currency, not Kincaid’s church scrip. Just hold this post for me until dawn. Give me time to search his office while everyone’s asleep, or distracted.”
The offer was tempting. Twenty dollars was more than Kincaid’s weekly wage, and it was clean money. But Kincaid’s men were already outside. The chapel clock chimed again, a single, sharp stroke. Eleven-thirty.
“They’re already making their move, Blythe,” I warned, handing back the telegraphs. “Pike and Rust. They’re coming for her tonight.”
Blythe’s face, usually pale, went even whiter. He didn’t seem concerned for Nalin, only for his opportunity.
“Then I need to act fast,” he muttered, already backing away. “Twenty dollars, Silas. Think about it.”
He disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with Nalin and the chilling knowledge of the full scope of Kincaid’s deception. The Jimson weed. The land receipt. Now stolen railway bonds. This wasn’t just about a spring; it was about an empire built on lies and blood.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours