Chapter 6 - The Ride Through the Blizzard
The storm had broken into a bitter, freezing dawn by the time Caleb led his heavy draft horse and wagon out from the timberline. The world was a blinding expanse of white, the air so cold that every breath turned into instant crystals of ice on their eyelashes.
Cora sat huddled on the wooden bench of the wagon, wrapped in a thick buffalo-hide coat Caleb had insisted she wear, her fingers clutching the oilskin packet containing the ledger pages inside her coat pocket.
Caleb walked beside the horse’s head, leading the animal through three feet of drifted snow down the steep mountain pass toward the distant smudge of smoke rising from the valley floor.
Bitter Creek.
The town looked even more wretched in the harsh morning light than it had when Caleb first rode in three days ago. The muddy scars of the main street were frozen solid into jagged ruts of ice, and the batwing doors of the Red Dog Saloon hung crookedly off a broken hinge.
As the wagon rumbled down the center of the main drag, people peered out from behind frosted windows and cracked saloon doors. Whispers rippled through the boardwalks like wind through dry grass. Word had already traveled up from the gulch about Harlon Fisk and his men failing to return from the mountain.
Caleb didn't look at them. His hand rested casually on the butt of his Colt revolver, his eyes fixed on the two-story brick building at the end of the street bearing a polished brass plaque: Sterling & Company Bank and Land Office.
The wagon came to a dead stop right in front of the double glass doors of the bank.
Caleb tied off the reins, walked around to the side of the wagon, and offered his hand to Cora. She took it, stepping down onto the frozen boardwalk with a quiet, steady resolve that rivaled any veteran Caleb had ever served with.
Together, they pushed through the polished oak doors of the bank.
The interior was warm, smelling of polished mahogany, expensive Turkish tobacco, and fresh ink. Behind a high mahogany counter stood a nervous teller who dropped his ledger book the moment he saw Caleb’s scarred face and heavy sheepskin coat.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, the bank isn't open for deposits yet,” the teller stammered, his hands shaking as he clutched a brass inkwell.
“We’re not here to make a deposit,” Caleb said, his voice cutting through the silent room like a razor. “Tell Thomas Sterling that an old friend from the Powder River has come to settle an account.”
Before the teller could reply, the heavy walnut door of the back office swung open.
Stepping out into the lobby was a tall, immaculate man in a tailored charcoal suit, his silver-streaked hair combed to perfection, a gold pocket watch chain glistening across his vest.
Major Thomas Sterling.
Sterling stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes flicked from Caleb’s weather-beaten face down to Cora standing beside him... and then to the oilskin packet protruding slightly from her coat pocket.
May you like
The color drained from Sterling’s face, leaving him looking older than his years, but a cold, predatory smile slowly touched the corners of his mouth.
“Well,” Sterling said smoothly, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I was wondering when the trash from the mountains would find its way back into town. You’re trespassing, Holt. And as for the widow Miller... I believe she has an $80 debt to settle.”
