Chapter 3 - The Number Seventeen
By sunrise, Clara understood one thing.
Someone wanted the brass key badly enough to kill for it.
She also understood something else.
Going alone to Blackwater Gorge would be exactly what Samuel’s killers expected.
So she did not go alone.
Thomas Mercer was too weak to travel.
Elias was locked in Dry Creek’s jail.
That left one person Clara trusted.
Doctor Benjamin Hale.
He arrived before breakfast with his medical bag and nearly dropped it when Clara lifted the floorboard.
“Good Lord.”
Mercer managed a weak smile.
“Morning, Doctor.”
Hale examined the wound.
“The bullet passed through.”
“Can he travel?”
“No.”
“Can he live?”
“If nobody shoots him again.”
Clara showed Hale the note.
His face darkened.
“You’re not going.”
“I am.”
“You’re seven months pregnant.”
“I noticed.”
“Clara.”
“Samuel was murdered.”
Hale fell silent.
He had delivered half the children in Dry Creek and buried too many of the other half.
He had also been Samuel’s closest friend.
“You’re certain?”
She showed him the ledger.
Hale read several pages.
His hands began trembling.
“I signed some of these death certificates.”
Clara looked at him.
“What?”
“Jacob Reese. Martin Cole. Henry Wallace.”
Names from the ledger.
“All listed as accidents.”
Hale stared at the page.
“Seventeen.”
Clara’s pulse jumped.
“What?”
“There were seventeen unusual deaths tied to land disputes over the last five years.”
The number.
Not an account.
Not a parcel.
A body count.
Clara felt sick.
“Samuel knew.”
“Maybe.”
Hale closed the ledger.
“You need federal authorities.”
“We need proof.”
“The ledger is proof.”
“No. Samuel wrote it. Vane will call it fantasy.”
“The key.”
Clara nodded.
Before she could answer, hoofbeats approached.
Hale hid the ledger.
Clara covered the trapdoor.
A young boy arrived on a lathered horse.
“Mrs. Whitmore!”
It was Danny Bell, the auctioneer’s grandson.
“What happened?”
“Boone’s hearing got moved.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Clara stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“Mr. Vane brought a territorial judge.”
Hale cursed under his breath.
Clara was already moving.
Dry Creek’s courthouse was packed.
Elias stood beside Sheriff Pike.
Chains again.
No baby.
Clara pushed through.
“Where is his child?”
Pike looked uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
Elias saw Clara.
Relief crossed his face.
Then disappeared.
Judge Caleb Ward sat behind the bench.
Horace Vane occupied the front row.
“Elias Boone,” Ward said, “you are accused of murdering Thomas Mercer.”
Clara almost laughed.
The absurdity was unbearable.
Mercer was alive beneath her house.
The prosecutor called a witness.
A Vane foreman named Curtis Shaw.
Shaw testified that he had seen Elias shoot Mercer near the mine.
“Liar,” Elias said.
Ward slammed the gavel.
Clara looked toward Vane.
He knew.
Somehow, he knew Mercer had survived.
This trial was not about conviction.
It was about forcing Clara to reveal him.
Judge Ward announced a recess.
Clara approached Elias.
Pike allowed it.
“You found the key?” Elias whispered.
“Yes.”
“Don’t use it.”
“What?”
“Ruth used to say Samuel was frightened of someone besides Vane.”
Clara frowned.
“Who?”
“She never told me.”
“Then how—”
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
Horace Vane stood behind her.
Clara turned.
“My condolences,” he said.
“For Samuel or Elias?”
Vane smiled.
“You have become reckless.”
“And you’ve become predictable.”
His eyes moved toward her belly.
“Samuel wanted you protected.”
“Don’t speak his name.”
“He was my friend once.”
“No.”
Vane’s smile faded.
“You know very little about your husband.”
The statement struck too close to truth.
Clara hated him for noticing.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“You sent the note.”
“What note?”
His surprise looked genuine.
That frightened her more than denial.
Clara said nothing.
Vane leaned closer.
“Whatever Samuel left behind, destroy it.”
“Why?”
“Because there are men involved in this who frighten even me.”
For the first time, Clara saw fear in Horace Vane’s eyes.
Then Judge Ward returned.
The hearing resumed.
Clara made her decision.
She stood.
“Your Honor.”
Ward frowned.
“Sit down.”
“I have evidence.”
Vane’s head snapped toward her.
Elias whispered, “Clara, no.”
She ignored him.
“Thomas Mercer is alive.”
Chaos erupted.
Ward slammed the gavel.
Vane stood.
Sheriff Pike stared at Clara.
“Where?”
She realized her mistake immediately.
Too late.
“At my farm.”
Vane moved toward the door.
Clara shouted, “Sheriff!”
Pike understood.
He ran.
Clara followed.
They reached the farm twenty minutes later.
The front door was open.
Again.
Hale’s horse was gone.
The trapdoor stood exposed.
Clara descended.
Empty.
Blood marked the floor.
But no Mercer.
No Hale.
On the wall someone had written in charcoal:
HELENA.
Elias was released before noon because the alleged victim could not legally be declared murdered after Clara and Pike testified they had seen him alive that morning.
Judge Ward was furious.
Vane was quieter.
That worried Clara.
Mrs. Fletcher returned the newborn.
Elias held his son as though recovering a piece of himself.
“What’s his name?” Clara asked.
Elias looked down.
“Samuel.”
Clara stared.
“Ruth chose it.”
“After my husband?”
“I suppose now we know.”
That evening they prepared to leave for Helena.
Pike wanted to come.
Clara refused.
“Someone has to watch Vane.”
Pike glanced toward the bank.
“I’ve been watching the wrong people for years.”
Before departure, Elias went to the barn.
Clara followed.
“You should stay.”
“No.”
“You’re carrying a child.”
“And you’re carrying one.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He had no answer.
Clara saddled Samuel’s mare.
Elias watched.
“You really are impossible.”
“So Samuel told me.”
Elias smiled.
It was the first time Clara had seen him do it.
The expression transformed him.
For one dangerous second she saw not a burned mountain man, not a prisoner, but a tired young father who had lost his wife three days earlier.
Then both remembered their grief.
The smile disappeared.
They rode north.
Baby Samuel slept against Elias inside a sling Clara had sewn.
Near Blackwater Gorge, Elias stopped.
“This is where your husband died.”
Clara looked down.
The ravine was steep.
She dismounted.
A crude wooden cross stood near the edge.
Someone had carved SAMUEL WHITMORE into it.
Clara touched the letters.
Elias searched the ground.
“What?”
“Tracks.”
“Recent?”
“Yes.”
He moved toward a cluster of rocks.
There, wedged beneath one stone, was a small metal box.
The brass key fit.
Clara looked at Elias.
“This isn’t Helena.”
“No.”
“So the note—”
“Was meant to make us think the key belonged somewhere else.”
Clara turned it.
The lock clicked.
Inside lay Samuel’s pocket watch.
His wedding photograph.
And a sealed letter.
TO CLARA.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
My dearest Clara,
If you are reading this, I failed to come home.
Do not trust the bank.
Do not trust Judge Ward.
And, Clara—
She stopped.
“What?”
Elias leaned closer.
Clara read the final line.
DO NOT TRUST SHERIFF AMOS PIKE.
A revolver cocked behind them.
Clara froze.
May you like
Sheriff Pike’s voice came from the rocks.
“I was hoping Samuel hadn’t written that part down.”
