Chapter 8
The ride back to Silver Cross was a blur of hooves and dust. Anthony kept his mare at a steady pace. His mind was still lodged in the canyon: the slosh of poison into clear water, the pale glint of Lyle Tate’s eyes under the brim of his hat.
The air grew warmer as the trail sloped down into the valley. The smell of sage faded under the heavier scents of smoke from cookfires and the coal stoves that kept the saloons in business long after sunset.
Anthony had only one thought and one course of action. He had seen enough to be certain. Vanburgh’s men were poisoning the river that ran into Shoshone lands, and one of those men was Lyle Tate—a killer with a reputation that reached farther than the Union Pacific tracks.
And now Tate was here, working under Vanburgh’s brand.
The knowledge scraped at him. If Tate was left unchecked, he would do more than foul the water. The man’s trade was violence, and Anthony knew from experience that it was never just the guilty who wound up bleeding.
By the time the mare’s hooves struck the packed dirt of Silver Cross’s main street, Anthony had worked himself into a hard knot of resolve.
The sun was sinking behind the ridge, but the sheriff’s office still had lamplight glowing behind its dusty window.
Anthony swung down and hitched his horse to the post before striding for the door.
Sheriff Winston Muldoon was behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up, chewing a toothpick and flipping through a stack of yellowing wanted posters. The sheriff glanced up once, then went back to his papers.
“Muldoon, we’ve got trouble,” Anthony said, slamming the door behind him. “Big trouble.”
The sheriff’s eyes came up slowly this time, his expression the same mix of boredom and mild irritation he wore for anyone who came in without a bottle or a bribe.
“Evening, Hawk,” Muldoon said. “Something biting at you?”
“Lyle Tate,” Anthony replied, leaning forward. “He’s here. I saw him not an hour ago, up in the canyon off the east fork.”
Muldoon frowned, setting the toothpick down. “Tate? You sure about that?”
“Sure as I’m standing here,” Anthony said. “And I didn’t just see him. I saw him with a man called Bill, Vanburgh’s wagonman, dumping barrels of poison into the river.”
The sheriff’s brow went up a fraction. “Poison.”
“Barrels of it,” Anthony said. “I don’t know what’s in them, but it’s foul enough to kill a creek stone dead. That water runs straight to Shoshone land, Muldoon. To folks’ homes. To the wells they drink from.”
The room went quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock. Muldoon’s eyes searched Anthony’s face, but there wasn’t belief there, only the calculation of a man deciding how much trouble this conversation might cause him.
“You’ve been out riding too long in the sun, Hawk,” Muldoon said finally. “Lyle Tate ain’t in town. I’d know.”
“You don’t know, Sheriff,” Anthony said. “You don’t know because you don’t want to know. But I saw him, plain as day. Tate and Bill, together, working for Vanburgh.”
Muldoon leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his belly. “And what would you like me to do with this fine tale?” he asked. “Ride out with a posse, kick in Vanburgh’s door, and ask real nice if he’s been misbehaving?”
“I’d like you to arrest Tate,” Anthony said, clenching his jaw. “At the very least, ask Vanburgh why his men are fouling the water supply.”
“Mm-hmm.” Muldoon rocked his chair back a little, the front legs lifting off the floor. “Problem is, Hawk, Tate ain’t in town to arrest. And I don’t go riling up powerful men over the say-so of one drifter who’s got a personal ax to grind.”
That landed like a slap. “This ain’t personal.”
“Everything’s personal,” Muldoon said. “Especially out here. And you’ve had your run-ins with Vanburgh before, haven’t you?”
Anthony’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I made this up?” he asked. “That I rode in here because I’m bored?”
The sheriff’s gaze turned flinty. “I think you’ve got a habit of finding trouble where it don’t belong. And right now, trouble’s the last thing this town needs.”
Something in Anthony snapped. “Trouble’s already here, Muldoon. It’s riding under Vanburgh’s brand, and it’s carrying Lyle Tate’s gun.”
Muldoon’s chair came down hard on all fours. “That’s enough.”
Anthony took a step back, breathing hard. The lamplight threw harsh shadows across the sheriff’s face, deepening the lines around his mouth.
“Sheriff—”
“I said that’s enough,” Muldoon barked. “You come storming in here, accusing men without proof, stirring up the kind of dust I can’t sweep away. You want me to keep the peace? Then I’ll start by keeping you from lighting the whole damn town on fire.”
Anthony’s gut went cold. “You’re gonna do nothing.”
Muldoon stood, coming around the desk until he was close enough for Anthony to smell the faint tang of whiskey on his breath.
“No, Hawk,” he said. “I’m gonna do something. I’m gonna make sure you sit somewhere quiet until this fever of yours passes.”
Before Anthony could move, the sheriff’s hand was on his shoulder, guiding him toward the back of the office. The other hand rested near the butt of his holstered Colt. Not drawing, not threatening, just a reminder.
“You arresting me?” Anthony asked, his voice low.
Muldoon nodded once. “For your own good. Drunk and disorderly’ll do fine.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Then you won’t mind sobering up in my jail.”
The iron door creaked as Muldoon swung it open. The cell was bare except for a cot and a bucket in the corner.
Anthony turned to face him. “You’re making a mistake, Sheriff.”
“Maybe,” Muldoon said. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
The door shut with a hollow clang, the key turning in the lock. Muldoon pocketed it and went back to his desk without another word.
Anthony sat on the cot, his mind still in that canyon, still watching black liquid seep into the creek and knowing exactly what it meant.
The lamplight flickered against the bars, and for the first time since he’d seen Lyle Tate’s face, Anthony let the weight of it settle. Tate and Vanburgh together meant things were going to get worse before they got better.
And now, Anthony was in no position to stop it.
But the sheriff couldn’t keep him here forever. And when the time came, he’d be ready.
He had to be.
***
Night came slowly. The murmur of the saloon dulled with each passing hour, leaving only the creak of signboards in the breeze and the occasional rattle of a wagon wheel over loose boards in the street.
Anthony lay on the cot, staring at the dark ceiling. He was counting the ticks of the wall clock in the sheriff’s office.
Then he heard it—low voices outside.
He sat up. The sound came from the alley that ran between the jail and the livery. At first, it was just muffled words. But then they grew sharper, more distinct.
“Vanburgh says . . .” one voice said. The rest was swallowed by a gust.
Anthony moved to the bars, tilting his head toward the narrow window high in the cell wall. Boots scuffed on hard-packed dirt.
Another voice replied, “Not tonight. Too many eyes in town.”
Anthony’s pulse picked up. He pressed closer, straining to catch more.
“Hawk’s locked up, ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the first man said. “Vanburgh wants it handled before . . .” The rest faded again, but the tone was enough. These weren’t drunks spilling gossip. These were men with a job to do, and his name had just passed their lips.
The scrape of a match flared briefly against the wall outside, throwing a dim orange glow past the window bars. Smoke drifted in through the crack.
Anthony stayed still, hardly breathing.
His mind churned. Was this about the barrels? About Lyle Tate? Or was Vanburgh simply tying off a loose end?