Caleb rode into town.
His horse's hooves echoed against the wooden street.
Nobody came outside.
Then a window opened.
An old woman whispered:
"Caleb."
He stopped.
"What happened?"
The woman shook her head.
"You're too late."
"Too late for what?"
She disappeared from the window.
A gunshot exploded from the sheriff's office.
Caleb's horse reared.
He jumped down.
His Winchester came up.
Another shot.
Then silence.
Caleb approached the building.
The door was open.
Inside, the sheriff lay behind his desk.
Alive.
Barely.
Caleb rushed toward him.
"Bell."
The sheriff opened his eyes.
His face was gray.
"They're coming."
"Who?"
Bell grabbed Caleb's sleeve.
"Not the outlaws."
He coughed blood.
"The town."
Caleb frowned.
"What?"
The sheriff's fingers tightened.
"They've already bought everyone."
Then the sheriff died.
Caleb stood frozen.
Outside, boots began moving through the street.
Dozens of boots.
He slowly turned toward the window.
Men were surrounding the building.
At the center stood a man Caleb knew.
Silas Rourke.
The richest cattle owner in the county.
And the man who had tried to buy Caleb's ranch for six years.
Rourke smiled.
"Caleb Mercer."
He called through the open door.
"You should have stayed home."
Caleb raised his rifle.
Rourke laughed.
"You don't understand."
He pointed toward the surrounding buildings.
"This town belongs to me."
Caleb looked at the dead sheriff.
Then back at Rourke.
"No."
His voice was quiet.
"Not yet."
THE GIRL IN THE CELLAR
Caleb escaped through the back window.
Three bullets followed him.
He ran through the alley.
A horse waited behind the livery stable.
He mounted and rode south.
He didn't stop until he reached the abandoned Miller farm.
The farm had been empty for five years.
The house was collapsing.
The well had dried.
But Caleb knew something nobody else knew.
There was an underground storage cellar beneath the kitchen.
He entered through a broken window.
Inside, everything smelled of dust and old wood.
He lifted a loose floorboard.
A ladder descended into darkness.
Caleb climbed down.
Then he heard breathing.
He raised his revolver.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
"Come out."
A voice answered.
"Don't shoot."
It was a young woman.
She stepped from behind a stack of wooden crates.
She was perhaps twenty-five.
Her dress was torn.
Her left cheek was bruised.
Her wrists were bound.
Caleb lowered the pistol.
"Who are you?"
"Anna Bell."
Caleb froze.
"The sheriff's daughter?"
She nodded.
Caleb cut the rope around her wrists.
"Your father is dead."
Anna closed her eyes.
"I know."
"How?"
"I was there."
Caleb stared.
She swallowed.
"They killed him."
"Who?"
"Men working for Rourke."
"Why?"
"Because my father found something."
"What?"
Anna reached into her dress.
She pulled out a small metal key.
"This."
Caleb examined it.
"What does it open?"
"A bank box."
"What's inside?"
"I don't know."
"Then how do you know it matters?"
Anna looked directly into his eyes.
"Because eleven men died trying to get it."
Caleb became very still.
"Where's the bank?"
"Black Creek."
"The bank is controlled by Rourke."
"Not anymore."
Caleb frowned.
Anna smiled faintly.
"My father hid the key before they caught him."
"And the box?"
"Under another name."
"What name?"
Anna hesitated.