Chapter 5: Midnight at the Lockup

In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything

Chapter 1: Four Silver Dollars and an Iron Chain

Chapter 2: The Root in the Water

Chapter 3: The San Francisco Wire

Chapter 4: The Decree on the Oak

Chapter 5: Midnight at the Lockup

Chapter 6: Smoke over New Zion

Chapter 7: The Gap in the Mesa

Chapter 8: The Sunrise on Sandstone

The thud of the deadbolt had barely settled when a harsh, metallic clang erupted from the rear of the chapel, followed by the splintering crack of wood. Pike and Rust weren’t waiting for the crowd. They were going straight for the lockup.

I spun around. Through the grimy, high window, I saw the silhouette of Jedediah Pike, a woodsman’s axe raised high. He brought it down with savage force, the blade biting deep into the thick adobe and the rough-hewn window frame.

Another crash, then another. Eli Rust was beside him, a lantern in one hand, his rifle slung. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet.

“Silas Brand!” Pike’s voice, rough and guttural, carried through the shattered glass. “Hand over the girl and her Apache trinket! Kincaid wants that land paper back!”

So that was it. Not just Nalin, but the evidence she carried. The $15 receipt that proved Kincaid stole her family’s spring.

A shard of glass tinkled to the floor near Nalin’s feet. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the gloom, watched me, then the window.

“She ain’t going nowhere!” I shouted back, drawing my Remington. The cold steel felt solid in my hand.

Pike responded by burying the axe deep into the window frame again, tearing a jagged hole in the wood. He was making quick work of it.

I raised my revolver and fired. The shot roared, deafening inside the small room, and slammed into the floorboards at Pike’s feet. Dust and splinters erupted.

Pike stumbled back, startled, a string of curses escaping his lips. Rust, however, moved with grim purpose. He unslung his rifle, but then, with a twisted grin, he hurled the lit kerosene lamp in his other hand.

It spun end over end, crashing against the dry, tattered curtain that covered a small alcove. The fabric, brittle with age and dust, ignited instantly. Flames licked up the wall, dancing with terrifying speed.

A thick, acrid smoke began to fill the room, stinging my eyes and catching in my throat.

“You fool!” I yelled, coughing.

But then, a new sound erupted outside. Not the shouts of the townsfolk, but a frantic bellowing, like a bull suddenly spooked. A bright, orange glow lit the sky beyond the chapel.

Shouting erupted across the square. More than just Kincaid’s orders, this was a sound of genuine alarm. I glanced out the window, past the now-burning curtain, and saw it.

Kincaid’s tithe barn, the largest structure in the settlement, stood engulfed in a massive blaze across the road. Flames shot high into the night, casting monstrous shadows that danced like devils against the mesa walls.

Thomas Blythe. He’d done it. He’d found his distraction. The smoke and chaos were sudden and absolute.

“Now what, Pike?” I choked out, covering my mouth with my arm. “Your precious barn is burning!”

Pike stared, his face illuminated by the inferno, his axe forgotten. The surprise on his face was clear, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a renewed, savage determination. He plunged through the shattered window, axe in hand, straight for Nalin.

More Stories

When my ex-husband and former architectural partner locked me out of our firm's flagship site in minus-three-degree Chicago weather to celebrate his illegal $14.5 million buyout with his young asso...

16 chapters

If you are looking for Silas O’Driscoll, you are staring right at him, the grey-bearded man said, holding out a weathered hand on the muddy wooden platform of the Fort Griffin depot.

13 chapters

My former son-in-law stood before the probate judge and claimed my 71-year-old hands were too fragile to care for my nine-year-old granddaughter, Maya.

17 chapters

You're late, Martha, my husband Julian said, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin without even looking up from his lobster shell. "Pay the bill, would you? We're done."

15 chapters

If you marry a woman old enough to be your mother, don't expect a dime when she drops dead, my younger sister Clara spat across the kitchen table, tossing down the wedding invitation.

14 chapters

Your mother’s cognitive state is fragile today, so we placed her outside for her own comfort, my husband told the press reporters outside our son’s wedding venue.

13 chapters