In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything
The chapel clock had barely finished its last chime when Jedediah Pike emerged from the shadows across the square. He wasn’t sneaking. He marched with a deliberate, heavy tread, carrying a hammer and a roll of paper. Eli Rust followed, a rifle cradled in his arms, his eyes scanning the windows of the adobe buildings.
My hand tightened on the brass key in my pocket. I watched Pike approach the heavy oak door of the chapel, the one right next to the lockup. The moon, now higher, cast long, stark shadows.
Pike didn’t knock. He simply leaned the paper against the door, pulled a handful of nails from his belt pouch, and began to hammer. Each strike was a loud, jarring crack in the quiet night.
A few lights flickered on in the nearby houses. Doors creaked open. Within minutes, twenty or so of the townspeople, mostly men, began to gather. They whispered, their faces grim, curiosity warring with their usual submission.
When Pike finished, he stepped back, giving the stage to Elder Kincaid. The Elder emerged from the front door of the main chapel, his black coat flowing, his face severe under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat. He ascended the three steps, looking down at the assembled crowd with the practiced authority of a man used to holding sway.
“Brothers and sisters of New Zion!” Kincaid’s voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs. It carried across the square, flat and cold. “Hear ye this decree!”
He pointed at the freshly nailed paper.
“Silas Brand,” he announced, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as if searching for me, “has betrayed his sacred trust. He has consorted with the heathen enemy, the Apache witch, who sought to defile our holy ground!”
A ripple of low growls went through the men. A few women clutched their shawls tighter.
“Let it be known,” Kincaid continued, his voice rising, “that by divine authority, I, Elder Amos Kincaid, Prophet of New Zion, declare Silas Brand an apostate! Excommunicated from this holy flock!”
My jaw clenched. Excommunication. In this settlement, that was worse than a death sentence. It meant utter isolation, no aid, no quarter.
“Furthermore,” Kincaid declared, his voice hard as flint, “he is hereby branded an outlaw! For his capture, dead or alive, the Church of New Zion offers a bounty of fifty dollars in good church coin!”
Fifty dollars. That was a small fortune in these parts. Enough to turn every man in that crowd into a hunter.
I gripped my Remington, the smooth wood of the grip suddenly slick in my palm. The crowd was starting to murmur louder now, some of them already checking their rifles. Lanterns began to appear, bobbing like malevolent fireflies in the growing darkness.
I couldn’t stay by the door.
I backed slowly into the lockup, my eyes on the small window. The crowd was growing, their faces illuminated by the lanterns, their eyes now fixed on my door. I pulled the heavy pine deadbolt, the oiled wood sliding with a solid thunk. The sound was pitifully small against the rising hum of the crowd.
They were no longer just Kincaid’s flock. They were a mob, and they were after my blood.
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