Anthony Hawk (Western Justice Adventures #29)
Prologue
The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the rugged ridges and dusty plains of the San Juan Hills. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and dry earth. It carried the faint chirp of distant crickets and the rustle of wind through sagebrush.
But beneath those familiar sounds, something else tugged at Anthony Hawk’s senses. It was an unease that settled deep in his bones.
His white-spotted Appaloosa mare moved steadily beneath him. Her hooves thudded in rhythm with his quickening pulse. Two weeks ago, Anthony had left Silver Cross loaded with supplies and the last of his gold dust. Now, every mile closer to home tightened the knot in his chest.
It was like a warning whispered by the wilderness itself.
Ahead, a column of smoke darkened the horizon. Its thick black tendrils curled lazily against the clear blue sky. It wasn’t the faint, cozy smoke of a cooking fire or a distant campfire. This was different—dense, acrid, and heavy with menace.
“Come on, Spirit,” Anthony said. “Slow down here.” He tugged lightly on Spirit’s reins, slowing her to a cautious trot.
The mare snorted, nostrils flaring as she caught the unfamiliar scent. He squinted toward the ridge and the rising smoke. His breath hitched.
Smoke meant fire. And fire out here was seldom good news.
“Easy, girl,” Anthony said, urging Spirit forward again.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the land below. The ground dropped away into a small basin where his family’s homestead lay. What he saw stopped his heart cold.
A blackened ruin stark against the green of the surrounding pines. The cabin that had once been sturdy and welcoming was now little more than a skeleton of burnt timbers.
The barn’s frame sagged, partially collapsed, and the fences that once enclosed their animals were splintered and broken. Even the well was cracked and dry.
Anthony slid from the saddle, boots crunching over ash and shattered wood.
The heat still radiated from the earth, prickling through his thick-soled boots.
The smell of burnt pine mingled with something sharper—metal and smoke and something else .
. . a faint, bitter odor that made his stomach twist.
His voice came out rough, low, and desperate.
“Uncle?” he called out. “Aunt? Eli?”
Only the wind answered, whistling through the charred remains and carrying the distant call of a lone raven.
Anthony’s eyes swept the devastation, trained by years of survival to look beyond the obvious. Scorch marks clung to the remnants of the walls, but something else caught his attention.
A series of small holes pockmarked the blackened wood. Irregular and jagged.
He crouched beside the front doorway, running calloused fingers over the splintered surface. These weren’t arrow shafts or bullet holes made by old rifles. No, these were from more modern firearms—Colts or Winchesters, the kind used by men who meant business.
Spent shells littered the ground beneath the beams, half-buried in ash and dirt. They were .44 caliber rounds, maybe .45s. The casing edges were still sharp; the fire hadn’t consumed them all.
His eyes scanned the dirt further. Boot prints stamped deep and wide. Not moccasin marks. At least six or seven men, maybe more. And wagon wheels, narrow and freshly pressed into the soft soil. Tracks leading west, toward the narrow canyon road.
Anthony’s breath caught. This was no random blaze; it was a raid, a deliberate act of violence.
He followed the trail of boots and wheels, stepping carefully over the debris. Every step brought more questions.
Who had done this? Where were his family? Why leave the fire still burning but no bodies?
Near the hearth, something half-buried caught the fading light. Anthony knelt and swept ash aside with the back of his hand. His fingers closed around a cold, heavy piece of iron.
An iron railroad spike.
Blackened and rough, the spike was too deliberate to have been left by accident. The railroad hadn’t yet reached this far west; this was a message.
His eyes flicked to the surrounding hills, where ancient pines stood tall and silent. The Shoshone had taught him respect for these mountains and streams. His family’s claim near Eagle Rock Basin had always been sacred ground—gold and stone held in trust, untouched in many places.
Now the fire was still warm beneath the ash. Whoever had come here hadn’t been gone long.
There was a sudden noise—soft but unmistakable. It made Anthony spin, and he drew his Colt 1851 Navy revolver from his holster with a snap. Spirit shifted uneasily at his side.
Three riders appeared from behind the ruins of the barn. They reined their horses to a halt, weapons at the ready but eyes wary. The tallest man had a weather-beaten face, scarred and lined like old leather. His smile was thin and cruel.
“Well, well,” the scarred rider said, his voice low and menacing. “Seems we missed a few.”
Anthony’s grip tightened. “You did this?”
The man laughed, spitting on the ground.
“Maybe we did,” he said. “Maybe we’re just making sure nobody snoops where they shouldn’t.”
“Too late for that,” Anthony said, steady despite the rage building in his chest.
The other two riders dismounted slowly, spreading out to flank him. Their hands hovered near their pistols and rifles. The smell of cheap whiskey and sweat rolled off them like a cloud.
“You got a smart mouth for a man alone,” the scarred one said. “Boss don’t like loose ends.”
Anthony’s mind raced, calculating odds. Three against one, no cover but the wreckage. He needed to act.
The first shot rang out, catching the nearest rider in the chest before he could raise his Winchester rifle. The man’s horse reared, throwing him hard to the ground.
Gunfire erupted in reply. Bullets splintered wood and kicked dust into the air.
He rolled behind a fallen beam, grit and ash raining down. His fingers found the Colt again, firing twice more. Another rider crumpled, his rifle clattering on the dirt.
The scarred man roared, charging like a bull. Anthony sidestepped, catching the man’s arm and twisting it. The revolver cracked harmlessly upward.
With a brutal shove and a hard elbow, Anthony drove the man back.
“Who sent you?” Anthony demanded, pointing his 1851 Colt at him.
Before the bandit could react, he slammed a knee into Anthony’s ribs and dove for his gun. The crack of a single shot ended the fight. The man hit the ground, lifeless. Silence fell again.
Spirit snorted nervously beside him, stamping restless hooves.
Anthony holstered the Colt and stared westward, beyond the ruins. The tracks in the dirt led away from his home and straight toward a darker future.
His boots crunched over the ash as he picked his way past the fallen barn. The acrid smoke clawed at his throat. Every step felt heavier.
Something pale caught his eye in the shadows near the old apple tree, half-buried in soot. He froze.
Three bodies. Lying side by side.
His uncle’s broad shoulders were slumped unnaturally, his shirt front dark and stiff with blood. His aunt’s hair was matted and gray with ash. Her still hands were clasped around the small frame of Eli, who lay crumpled against her.
The boy’s eyes were closed, and his face was smudged with soot, as if he had simply fallen asleep. But the dark, jagged hole in his temple told the truth.
Anthony knelt hard, the impact rattling through his bones.
The breath tore from his chest in a soundless gasp. His hands shook as he touched his aunt’s shoulder, then his younger cousin’s hair. Still warm. They hadn’t been dead long.
A cold, hollow fury filled the space where grief should have been. Whoever had done this hadn’t just taken his home; they’d taken his blood.
He rose slowly, the weight of his Colt 1851 Navy heavy at his hip. His gaze drifted west, toward the canyon road where the wagon tracks led.
The killers thought they’d left no witnesses. They thought fire and fear would be enough to silence the truth.
They were wrong.
Anthony mounted Spirit. The mare shifted beneath him as if she could feel his resolve. The sun was sinking, bleeding red across the horizon, but the road ahead was clear in his mind.
He would follow the tracks. He would find them.
And they would pay.