Chapter 5 - The Ledger of the Damned
Caleb kicked Harlon’s unconscious body out onto the porch and slammed a heavy wooden beam across what was left of the ruined doorway. He walked back to the center of the room, wiping a streak of black gunpowder from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
Cora was kneeling by the hearth, her hands trembling as she pulled the oilskin packet from her dress and laid the fragile, yellowed pages out on the wooden table.
“Are they damaged?” Caleb asked, walking over and leaning down to inspect the documents by the light of a single tallow candle.
“No,” Cora whispered, smoothing out a creased corner with infinite care. “Arthur kept them wrapped in greased pigskin. Waterproof. Every signature is intact.”
Caleb held the candle closer, reading the faded ink scrawled across the ledger sheets.
It wasn't just a record of stolen land grants or falsified mining claims. It was the complete, itemized payroll ledger of the Seventh Independent Montana Scouts for the winter of 1876, signed in Major Thomas Sterling’s own precise, elegant handwriting—alongside a notarized agreement detailing the payoff to a local renegade band to ambush the supply train and eliminate every witness.
Including Lieutenant Marcus Vance.
“This is a federal hanging offense,” Caleb said, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous whisper. “Every bank Sterling owns, every political office he’s bought in Cheyenne, every acre of timber and railroad stock he controls... it’s all built on the blood of your husband and my brothers-in-arms.”
“And he knows we have it,” Cora said, looking up at Caleb with dark, haunted eyes. “Harlon and his men were just the advance guard. If Sterling finds out Harlon failed, he’ll send the territorial marshal, the sheriff, and every hired gun between here and Denver. We can’t hide out in this cabin anymore, Caleb.”
Caleb stood upright, walking over to his wall rack where his father’s old buffalo rifle and a heavy bandolier of ammunition hung side by side. He reached down, unhooked the leather belt, and strapped it around his waist with steady, practiced movements.
“We’re not going to hide, Cora,” Caleb said, his eyes reflecting the steady, unyielding flame of the hearth. “We’re going to Bitter Creek.”
Cora stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. “Bitter Creek? Sterling owns the town! The judge, the banker, the telegraph office—they’re all in his pocket!”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re bringing our own judge,” Caleb replied, walking over to the corner of the room where a heavy canvas bedroll sat tied with leather straps. He untied it, reaching deep inside, and pulled out something that made Cora gasp aloud.
It was a rusted, dented federal military officer’s sword, wrapped in an oil-stained cavalry standard bearing the insignia of the Seventh Scouts.
May you like
And beneath it lay a leather journal filled with handwriting that Cora had never seen, but whose signature matched the name on the silver token she held in her hand.
Lieutenant Marcus Vance.
