Chapter 5
Anthony stepped out of Abigail’s clinic, the scent of carbolic still clinging to him.
The late afternoon light slanted gold across the terrain, and dust motes swirled in the heat. He pulled his hat brim low and mounted Spirit. The familiar weight of the saddle settled beneath him.
He urged Spirit into a steady trot and rode toward town, eyes sharp as he scanned the main street for faces, movements, anything that didn’t fit.
That’s when he saw it—a freight wagon rolling slowly down the main road. Two chestnut-colored mules pulled steadily. The boards were stenciled with the black “V” brand he’d seen on Vanburgh’s ore haulers the day before. But this one wasn’t headed toward the rail spur.
A large man sat on the driver’s seat, reins loose in his hands. He looked like he had no authority but did whatever job was put in front of him.
A large neckerchief covered the lower region of his face. It wasn’t enough to rouse suspicion, but it was enough to make Anthony struggle with placing him.
He was sure he looked familiar.
On the other side of the seat, a tall man turned his head just enough to catch Anthony in his periphery. Sharp face, lean frame, and a Colt 1873 Single Action Army revolver on his hip.
The tall man gave a small nod, almost a challenge. “Name’s Bill. You?”
“Anthony Hawk,” Anthony replied.
The larger man grunted. “Ain’t seen you in these parts much.”
“Not lately.”
Anthony let his gaze drift to the tarp over the wagon bed. It was tied too neatly for loose ore sacks. The wind caught it just enough to flash the metallic glint of iron spikes and rail fittings.
“What’s under there?” Anthony asked.
“Freight,” Bill said flatly.
“Headed where?”
“West,” Bill said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Why? You lookin’ to buy something?”
“Just curious,” Anthony responded.
Bill’s tone turned casual, but his posture didn’t change. “Then do yourself a kindness, Hawk,” he said. “Turn that horse of yours around before curiosity makes trouble.”
Anthony gave a slow nod, filing away his name and the wagon’s heading. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
But as the wagon rumbled away, Anthony’s eyes narrowed. Something about the way the men moved kept gnawing at him.
He waited until the wagon disappeared down the main road. Then, he urged Spirit forward and continued following at a distance. He stayed in the shadow of cottonwoods and scrub, keeping out of sight. The wagon’s wheels rattled over dry earth, mules’ hooves thudding steadily.
By the time the road dipped, Bill stepped down from the wagon and moved deliberately to block the path.
“You don’t go no further,” he said, voice low but firm.
Anthony met his steady gaze. “And if I don’t?”
“You’ll wish you had.”
The nameless driver watched as the mules shifted. His eyes were expressive. He didn’t need to see his mouth to know that he was out here for trouble.
Anthony let the silence stretch, then tipped his hat.
“See you around.”
He turned Spirit, making a mental note of the wagon’s direction—straight toward the far ridges that bordered his family’s land near Eagle Rock.
By the time Anthony rode back into the blackened hollow where his homestead had stood, the sun was dipping low. The smell of ash hadn’t faded. Wind whispered through the skeletal remains of the barn.
He dismounted slowly, boots crunching over charred debris. Each step was a memory: his father mending fence posts, his mother at the porch rail. Now it was all gone.
But the fire hadn’t touched the old stone well. Anthony crouched near its base, brushing away soot from a patch of dirt. That’s when he saw it—scrape marks in the earth, like something heavy had been dragged and buried.
“Pa,” he murmured, “what’d you leave me?”
He fetched a half-bent crowbar from the rubble and worked at the packed soil. The ground gave with a dry crumble, and soon the edge of iron showed. It was a small, scorched lockbox. The metal was pitted from the heat, but the latch was intact.
He set it on the well’s rim and pried it open. Inside lay a folded sheaf of papers. He unrolled them with careful hands.
Grant Deed – Parcel No. 48, Eagle Rock, Wyoming Territory.
Anthony exhaled slowly. The land title. His father’s name in bold script, signed and sealed.
“That yours?” a voice asked behind him.
He turned sharply, surprised to see Abigail standing just beyond the well, her skirt brushing the ash.
“I . . . didn’t expect you here,” Anthony said, blinking.
Abigail met his gaze. “I followed you,” she admitted quietly. “You didn’t seem like a man who’d go digging through old ashes without reason, and I wanted to see for myself.”
Anthony turned back to the lockbox. Her question hung in the air, unanswered. He sighed deeply.
“It could be, ma’am,” he said. “Could also be a reason Vanburgh’s been sniffing around.”
She stepped closer, eyes on the papers. “Eagle Rock,” she said. “That’s not just land. That’s leverage.”
Anthony tucked the deed back in the box. “It’s ours, legally. Which means Vanburgh can’t touch it without pushing me out . . . or burying me in it.”
“That’s why he’s poisoning the well,” Abigail said softly. “Drive the Shoshone away, claim the land’s abandoned, then move in before anyone can fight him.”
He looked at her, the glow of the sun catching in her hair. “You sound awful certain.”
“I’ve seen men like him before,” she said. “Money makes them think they can carve up the world like a roast.”
Anthony almost smiled at the steel in her voice. “Then maybe it’s time someone put a knife in the right place,” he replied.
“That someone being you?”
“Someone has to.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. “Just . . . don’t get killed before you do it.”
He closed the lockbox and set it under his arm. “I’ll try to disappoint you, ma’am,” Anthony said.
Her lips curved faintly, but her eyes stayed serious. “I mean it, Anthony.”
“I know.”
The wind stirred the ash around their boots. In the distance, a coyote called. Anthony glanced back at the blackened timbers, then at her.
“Vanburgh’s making his move,” he said. “Now I’ve got something worth protecting.”
She nodded toward the box. “And worth killing for.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He glanced at Abigail, noting the determined set of her jaw. Then his expression shifted, concern flickering in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said quietly. “Not alone. It’s dangerous. More dangerous than you probably realize.”
“I can take care of myself,” Abigail replied.
He shook his head slowly. “It’s not about that, ma’am. Vanburgh’s men don’t play fair. If they think you’re poking around, you could end up hurt . . . or worse.”
She folded her arms, but the edge of worry softened her voice. “And you think I’d just run off and leave you to handle it all?” she asked.
“No,” Anthony said. “But I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. This is my fight.”
For a long moment, they just stood there.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he finally said.
Abigail’s eyes held his steady. “I promise. But you’ll have to watch your back, too, Anthony.”
He nodded, the silence between them saying more than words could.