In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything
The smoke in the chapel was thick and choking, making my eyes water and blurring the already dim light. Pike was through the window now, a wild glint in his eyes, axe in hand. He wasn’t thinking about the barn. He was thinking only of Nalin and that receipt.
I didn’t hesitate. As he lunged, I swung the barrel of my Remington, not to shoot, but to trip. My boot lashed out, catching his shin. He cried out, stumbling forward, then tumbled headfirst down the three rickety cellar steps that led to the chapel’s storage space. The clang of his axe clattering against the stone floor echoed from below.
A quick glance at Nalin. She was still chained to the pillar, but her eyes held a spark of hope. I rushed to her, fumbling with the small brass key. The lock on the iron anklet was stiff, rusted, but the key turned. A soft click.
The heavy iron ring fell open. Nalin rubbed her raw ankle, but her gaze was on the ceiling. A deep, ominous groan came from above. A massive roof beam, black with age, cracked directly over our heads. Sparks showered down.
The chapel was a tinderbox. The fire Rust had started was spreading fast, eating at the dry redwood interior. Eli Rust, however, was nowhere to be seen. He must have fled when the barn fire started. Or locked us in.
“We have to go!” I shouted, pulling Nalin up.
The stained-glass altar window was our only way out. It was a beautiful, intricate depiction of a shepherd and his flock, now bathed in the hellish glow of the barn fire.
“Hold on!” I yelled, pulling Nalin close.
With the butt of my Remington, I smashed the glass. It exploded inward, showering us with glittering fragments. I pushed Nalin through first, shielding her head with my arm, then squeezed through myself, dropping six feet into the dusty rear alleyway.
The cool night air was a shock after the heat and smoke. We hit the ground running.
“Silas! Nalin!”
A voice, surprisingly close. Thomas Blythe emerged from the alley’s mouth, holding the reins of two saddle horses. They whinnied nervously, their eyes wide from the smoke and the crackling inferno of the tithe barn.
“I got the ledgers!” Blythe gasped, waving a satchel wildly. “And horses! Kincaid’s books are burning with his tithes!”
He handed me the reins to one horse, then helped Nalin scramble onto its back. I swung into the saddle, my eyes scanning the valley ahead.
The barn fire illuminated the entire compound, casting a lurid, flickering light across the desert. And that’s when I saw it.
Elder Kincaid, astride a black stallion, formed a wall of horses across the only canyon road leading out of the valley. Sixteen armed riders, their rifles gleaming, were spread out behind him. Their faces, stern and unforgiving, were lit by the hellish glow.
He had surrounded us. The escape had been anticipated.
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