Chapter 2
The evening was pale and cold over Silver Cross. The sky was a depressing mix of dark watercolor above the cluster of weathered buildings.
The doors of the saloon swung open.
Anthony spotted Sheriff Muldoon just as the man stepped out of the saloon, adjusting his hat and glancing up the street.
“Sheriff,” Anthony said, his voice low but edged with purpose.
“Morning, Hawk,” he said, refusing to stop moving. He was already walking toward the far end of the street. “Got business to see to.”
“So do I,” Anthony said, falling into step beside him.
The sheriff didn’t answer, weaving past a wagonload of crates and exchanging curt nods with townsfolk along the way. They walked the length of the main street, boots thudding on the packed dirt.
Anthony’s patience thinned with each step, but he kept pace, studying the set of Muldoon’s jaw. The sheriff avoided looking at him directly.
By the time they reached his office, the sun had set. Muldoon pushed open the creaking door and went inside without invitation.
Anthony followed. The familiar smell of leather, tobacco, and old wood filled his nostrils. The townsfolk still watched from doorways and windows, but Anthony could feel their unease.
There was something else, too—a wary distance that hadn’t been there before.
Sheriff Muldoon settled behind his desk, the chair groaning under his weight. Some deputies were in the building too, though they seemed far too distracted with something else.
The sheriff’s eyes finally met Anthony’s.
“All right,” he said. “What’s so pressing?”
Anthony stepped forward, his voice quiet but steady.
“The fire,” Anthony replied. He paused, eyes locked on the sheriff. “My family was there, Muldoon. They’re dead.”
Muldoon’s brows lifted slightly. A flicker of surprise quickly smoothed over. His hand twitched near his Colt Paterson revolver, but his voice stayed flat.
“I knew about the fire, Hawk,” he said. “I didn’t hear about any . . . bodies. That’s unfortunate, but not uncommon these days. Hard winters, dry timber. Could’ve been lightning.”
Anthony’s laugh was bitter. “Lightning doesn’t leave bullet holes,” he said. “You know who did this.”
The sheriff’s face darkened, though not with grief. “We’re all doing our best to keep the peace, Hawk,” he replied. “The Indian raids have been troubling folks lately.”
“Don’t call it an Indian raid,” Anthony’s voice rose, sharp as a whip. “You and I both know it wasn’t them.”
The room grew silent. The few deputies standing nearby stopped their conversation and fixed their eyes on Anthony. Muldoon stood, looming over the desk.
“You’re stirring trouble,” the sheriff said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’d best be careful.”
“I’m here for the truth,” Anthony said, meeting his gaze steadily. “You either tell it, or I’ll find it myself.”
Muldoon’s hand twitched toward his revolver, but a voice cut through the tension.
“Sheriff, maybe we should let the man speak.”
A tall deputy stepped forward, eyes sharp and clear. Thomas Brigg was young but steady. He was the kind of man who hadn’t been worn down by the town’s politics yet.
Muldoon hesitated but sank back into his chair with a grunt. “Fine,” he said. “Speak your piece, Hawk. But watch yourself.”
Anthony leaned forward, planting both hands on the desk. “There were bullet holes in the cabin walls, Muldoon,” he said. “Everywhere. Fresh casings still in the ash. My family was shot. Clean shots to the chest and head. Not scalped. Not taken for ransom. Shot dead where they stood.”
The deputies shifted uneasily, exchanging glances.
“And there were tracks,” Anthony went on, his voice steady but dangerous. “Boot prints, wagon wheels . . . heading west. Not toward the mountains. Not toward any Indian camp. Straight toward the railroad’s road crew.”
Muldoon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw working. “You can believe what you want, Hawk,” he said. “But we’ve had Indian trouble for months. Folks know they’ll steal stock, burn homes—”
“Don’t insult me,” Anthony cut in, his voice like steel. “I’ve seen raids. This wasn’t one.”
The room fell into a taut silence. Thomas Brigg watched Muldoon closely. His mouth was a hard line.
The sheriff’s face remained unreadable, but his fingers drummed once against the desk. “You’re stirring trouble that’ll get you killed,” he said finally. “Let it go.”
Anthony didn’t move. “Not a chance.”
The sheriff’s jaw clenched. The deputies exchanged uneasy glances. Muldoon’s hand rested heavily on the desk, knuckles white.
“You’re making a mistake, Hawk,” the sheriff said quietly. “This town needs the railroad more than it needs troublemakers.”
“And what about my family?” Anthony asked. “What about justice?”
The sheriff said nothing. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then, the door burst open.
Joel was a rough-looking man with a weather-beaten face. He stepped inside. His Smith & Wesson revolver rested loosely at his side, but the tension in his posture spoke of readiness.
“Sheriff,” Joel said in a low voice, “there’s word from the railroad camp. They want to know if we’ve heard anything about Hawk poking around.”
Muldoon’s eyes flicked to Anthony.
“You hear that, Hawk?” he asked. “The railroad’s got ears everywhere.”
Anthony kept his face still, but the thought hit him like a cold wind. Someone must have seen him. Seen the fight at the homestead, the three riders he’d put in the ground.
Word had a way of traveling fast, especially when the railroad wanted it to.
And if the man pulling the strings had already been wondering why Anthony Hawk wasn’t in his family’s cabin during the so-called Indian raid, this would only sharpen his suspicion.
Hawk wasn’t a stranger here. Folks knew his habits, his routes, the way he came and went. Whoever planned the massacre would have noticed his absence. Now, they’d be wondering what exactly he had been doing instead.
“Boss wants this quiet,” Joel said, stepping forward. “No stirring up the town.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’re the ones who burned my family’s home.”
“I’m just the messenger,” Joel replied. “You got a smart mouth for a man who’s got no backup.”
Muldoon raised a hand. “Enough. Mr. Hawk, I suggest you leave town for your own safety. We don’t want bloodshed here.”
Anthony met the sheriff’s gaze, hard as flint. “No,” he said. “I’m not leaving. Not until I get answers.”
Muldoon’s expression darkened.
Outside, the townsfolk had gathered. Whispers flowed like a slow river. Anthony could feel their eyes—some filled with fear, others with something close to pity.
He turned toward the door.
The barmaid from the saloon caught his eye from across the street. She gave him a subtle nod—a warning wrapped in a gesture.
Anthony mounted Spirit, the mare steady beneath him. As he rode through the town, he felt the weight of every glance and every whisper.
The sheriff’s words echoed in his mind: We don’t want bloodshed.
But Anthony knew better.
Blood had already been spilled. And the fight was just beginning.