Chapter 5 - The Cellar Door
The sound of the heavy iron bolt sliding home was followed by the muffled, grating scrape of a wooden crate being dragged across the top of the cellar steps.
Caleb reacted instantly. He dropped the lantern into Adeline’s hand, his revolver already clearing leather with a smooth, practiced draw. He vaulted over a stack of empty crates and hit the wooden stairs three at a time, throwing his shoulder against the heavy oak door.
It didn't budge. Something massive and heavy—judging by the resistance, a church pew or a loaded supply crate—had been wedged against the outside landing.
"Who's out there?" Caleb shouted, his voice booming through the thick timber.
"Just a friendly reminder about property rights, Mr. Vance," a voice drifted down through the cracks in the boards. It wasn't Henderson. It was smooth, cultured, and dripping with oily amusement: Arthur Pendelton. "You should know better than to go digging through municipal trash. Some things are better left buried."
Adeline hurried up the steps behind him, holding the lantern high. "Pendelton! You can't lock us in here. Those records are federal evidence!"
"There are no federal records in that basement, Mrs. Vance," Pendelton’s voice replied, unbothered. "Only old church junk that's about to catch a terrible, unfortunate fire. A faulty oil heater in the vestry, the local paper will say. Very tragic."
Caleb gripped the edge of the doorframe, his muscles straining until the veins in his neck stood out like corded rope. He threw his weight against the wood once, twice, three times, but the combination of the heavy exterior weight and the swollen pine frame held firm. The old hinges groaned, but the latch stayed locked.
"He's serious," Adeline said, her voice taut with urgency. She looked around the dim cellar. The smell of damp earth was suddenly overlaid with a faint, unmistakable reek of kerosene drifting down from the floorboards above.
"Tom," Caleb muttered, cursing himself for not telling the old hand where they were going. "Tom doesn't know where we are."
"The window," Adeline said, pointing toward the back wall of the cellar.
Half-buried behind a stack of rotting cedar shingles was a small, coal-chute window near the ceiling, barely two feet square, covered with rusted iron bars and grimy wire mesh.
Caleb didn't hesitate. He holstered his revolver, grabbed a heavy iron crowbar leaning against a crate of hymnals, and sprinted across the cellar floor. He wedged the tip of the bar beneath the rusted frame of the coal chute and leaned his entire body weight into it.
The iron shrieked in protest. Flakes of old flaking paint and rust rained down into his hair.
"Help me with this!" Caleb roared.
Adeline set the lantern down safely on a crate and threw her weight alongside his against the iron bar, her hands overlapping his on the cold metal. Together, driven by the acrid smell of burning oil that was now beginning to seep through the floorboards overhead, they heaved.
With a deafening snap of rusted iron and rotting wood, the entire frame gave way. The coal window burst outward into the wet grass outside, shattering the glass and letting in a rush of cold, clean morning air.
Caleb scrambled up the stack of cedar shingles first, grabbing the rough stone sill and hauling himself halfway through the narrow opening. He dropped down onto the wet grass outside, then spun around, reaching both hands back through the narrow gap.
"Adeline! Give me your hands."
Adeline reached up, her fingers locking around his wrists. Caleb braced his boots against the stone foundation and pulled with every ounce of strength he possessed. She squeezed through the narrow opening just as a tongue of orange flame licked out from beneath the interior cellar door behind them.
They tumbled backward onto the wet grass together, gasping for air as the cold Wyoming rain beat down on their faces.
From the front of the church, the sound of carriage wheels crunching rapidly over the gravel faded into the distance.
Caleb rolled over, coughing from the smoke, and pulled Adeline up into a sitting position. Her coat was smeared with soot and red clay, her hair had come entirely unpinned, tumbling in dark waves over her shoulders, and her hands were bleeding slightly from a scrape on the rough stone sill.
But clutched safely in her right hand, protected against her chest like precious gold, was the thick, leather-bound probate ledger.
Caleb stared at her, his chest heaving, a mixture of fierce adrenaline and profound, overwhelming awe washing over him. He reached out, his rough thumb gently brushing a smudge of soot from her cheek.
Adeline looked up at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her grey eyes shining with a mixture of defiance and relief.
"Well," she whispered, a breathless, defiant smile touching her lips. "That certainly beats making biscuits."
May you like
Caleb let out a short, rough laugh that turned into a growl as he looked back at the smoke beginning to billow from the church windows. He pulled the ledger from her hands, tucked it securely beneath his arm, and helped her to her feet.
"Get on my horse," Caleb said, his voice hard as iron. "We're not going back to the ranch. We're riding straight to the U.S. Marshal in Cheyenne."
