Chapter 8 - Breaking the Locks
The heavy iron key felt cold in my palm. Without wasting a second, I turned away from Tom, who was already rubbing the back of his neck as if preparing a convincing story for Dutch's morning inspection, and hurried down the dark feed alley toward the rear holding pens.
The pen was constructed of thick oak planks, reinforced with iron straps—sturdy enough to hold a steer, let alone a half-starved young man. Through the vertical gaps in the wood, I saw a figure huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees.
"Hey," I whispered, holding the lantern closer. "Zora sent me."
The young man jerked his head up. His face was gaunt, dark bruises shadowing his jaw from whatever rough handling Morrison's men had given him when they dragged him off the ridge. His amber-flecked eyes—so like Zora's—widened with a mix of fear and sudden, desperate hope.
I slid the heavy iron key into the padlock. The mechanism was rusted from the damp night air, but with a firm twist, it gave a satisfying clack and popped open. I pulled the shackle free and swung the heavy wooden gate outward.
"Can you walk?" I asked in Spanish, stepping into the stall.
The boy—he couldn't have been more than eighteen—pushed himself up from the straw, his legs shaking violently beneath a torn cotton shirt. "My ankle," he rasped, wincing as he put weight on his right foot. "They kicked me when they brought me in from the trail."
I didn't hesitate. I crouched down, let him lean his weight over my shoulder, and hoisted him up, carrying his frame against my side as we moved swiftly down the alley toward the rear loft door.
Tom was sitting on the feed bucket again, staring into the dark with his head in his hands. He didn't look up as we passed.
"Thanks, Tom," I said quietly.
"Just get out of here, Adam," the older man muttered without lifting his face. "And don't ever come back to this county."
Getting the boy out of the loft required a careful, agonizing descent down the side ladder while supporting his dead weight, followed by a slow drop into the soft dirt of the dry creek bed. By the time we reached the shelter of the cottonwoods where my camp was pitched, the eastern horizon was just beginning to streak with a pale, bruised line of silver light.
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Zora was already awake. She was sitting by the cold ashes of the firepit, her eyes fixed on the treeline. When she saw us emerge from the dark, her hands flew to her mouth, cutting off a sharp intake of breath. She didn't cry or shout; she stood up and ran toward us, catching her brother under his free arm and helping me carry him the final twenty yards to the bedroll.
As we lowered him gently onto the blankets, Zora looked up at me. The hard, defensive shell that had armored her since the main street in Red Creek seemed to melt away, leaving something raw, vulnerable, and profoundly steady in its place.
