Chapter 8: The Mind Behind the Barricade

Shouts echoed through the quiet streets of Dustwater Creek as the intruders pressed against the Rusted Spur Saloon’s front door. Heavy fists pounded the wood; a boot kicked the frame with a thud that made the floorboards tremble. Inside, the men froze, unsure, fear and guilt etched deep on their faces. Upstairs, Lysandra Bale lay rigid among her pillows, immobilized, every muscle taut with pain, yet every sense sharpened to a razor’s edge.

“Steady,” she whispered, voice firm and commanding. “Don’t shoot. No one deserves to die. Don’t rush. Let them strain themselves. Their strength is wasted if we control the chaos.”

Harlan Pike’s large hands shook as he gripped a chair to hurl at the door. Lysandra’s eyes, sharp as fire, guided him. “No, Harlan! Not yet. Wait until they lean too far. Then—throw at the left side. Distract. Use the flour barrel. Make noise. Confuse them. Draw them wrong.”

The men obeyed, moving like extensions of her will. One overturned a chair, another rolled the barrel, and the loud crash of metal and wood startled the intruders. Shouts rang out from below as the bandits stumbled over obstacles Lysandra had pre-positioned days before. Every noise, every clatter, every shouted curse played into her plan.