Chapter 9
The hours crawled. Anthony sat on the cot with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on the floorboards. He was replaying the conversation he’d overheard in the alley.
Handled before . . . The rest of the sentence didn’t need to be spoken. He’d been in enough bad country to know how men like Vanburgh thought.
Somewhere in the dark, a dog barked once. The wind shifted, carrying the faint stink of manure into the cell. Silver Cross was settling into its shallow sleep.
Anthony shifted, testing the door. Still locked tight. The key was long gone in Muldoon’s pocket. His Colt Navy revolver was gone, too. Muldoon had taken it the moment he’d shoved Anthony inside.
No weapon, no allies, and now the weight of an unseen clock ticking down to something ugly.
The first sound was almost nothing. Just a whisper of boot leather against packed earth. Then came another, closer. Anthony turned toward the barred window, listening.
The voices were back. He couldn’t make out words this time. There was a brief murmur, then silence, followed by a scrape like metal on stone.
His skin prickled. He had heard that sound before—gunmetal brushing against a wall.
The next noise was louder. The soft groan of the back door to the sheriff’s office swinging open.
Anthony rose slowly, crossing to the bars that separated the cell block from the front office. The lamplight in the outer room was gone. Only the faint silver of moonlight spilled in from the street through the front window.
A shadow moved across that light. Tall. Broad shoulders.
Then, another figure slipped in behind him.
They didn’t speak. One of them held something long—rifle, maybe a shotgun. The other crouched near the desk. Anthony caught the brief flash of the desk drawer sliding open.
His Colt.
“Vanburgh says quiet,” the taller one whispered.
The man with the rifle chuckled under his breath. “Quiet as the grave.”
Anthony backed away from the bars, scanning the cell. Nothing in there could serve as a weapon except the cot frame, and that was bolted to the wall. He would have to be fast. Unpredictable. Make them come to him.
The cell key rattled.
They had a key?
Anthony’s heart slammed against his ribs. He could almost feel the cold metal of the Colt in the man’s hand beyond the bars.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open an inch.
That was all the warning he got.
Anthony lunged, slamming the door inward with all his weight. The edge caught the crouched man in the shoulder, knocking him sideways. The Colt went skittering across the floor.
“Ah, you bastard!” The rifleman swung his weapon toward Anthony.
Anthony dove low, the shot blasting overhead and splintering the doorframe. He came up hard under the rifleman’s arm, driving his shoulder into the man’s ribs. The rifle clattered to the floor.
The other man recovered fast, shoving the cell door wide. Anthony grabbed for the Colt, but a boot heel caught his wrist, pinning his hand.
A second later, a fist cracked against his jaw. It snapped his head to the side. He tasted blood.
“You should’ve stayed quiet, Hawk,” the rifleman growled.
Anthony spat red on the floorboards. “Not really my style.”
The man with the Colt leveled it at his chest.
Anthony kicked out, catching the man’s knee. The shot went wild, punching a hole in the plaster wall.
Shouts erupted outside. Someone in the street had heard. Boots pounded against the boardwalk.
The rifleman cursed and swung again. Anthony ducked and grabbed the edge of the desk before heaving it. Papers and ink scattered as the desk toppled toward them.
The Colt went tumbling again, sliding under the bars into the empty cell.
The front door burst open. Lamplight spilled in from the street along with two more men. Vanburgh’s colors were stitched into the lapels of their coats.
Anthony was trapped. No gun. Two armed men between him and the front door, two more in the cell block with him.
“End it,” one of the newcomers barked.
The rifleman yanked a knife from his belt and stepped forward.
Anthony’s gaze darted to the toppled desk. One of the legs had splintered into a jagged shard the length of his forearm. He snatched it up and threw himself sideways just as the knife came down.
Wood met steel with a dull crack. Anthony twisted, driving the splintered leg up into the rifleman’s throat. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to send him choking backward.
The man with the knife slashed again, catching Anthony’s sleeve. He didn’t feel the cut until the warm slick of blood ran down his arm.
Anthony’s heel caught the base of the iron stove. He used it, shoving off hard and barreling into the knife man, driving him back into the bars.
The two in the doorway moved forward, guns raised.
Anthony dropped and rolled into the cell before snatching up the Colt 1851 Navy revolver from the floor. He came up on one knee, thumbed back the hammer, and fired twice.
Both doorway men staggered back. One was clutching his shoulder, the other was spinning away with a shout.
Anthony pivoted, firing at the rifleman in the corner. The man collapsed against the wall.
The last one lunged at him. Anthony sidestepped and caught the man’s arm, using his own momentum to slam him headfirst into the bars. He crumpled without a sound.
The office stank of gunpowder and blood. The only sound was Anthony’s own breathing and the faint ringing in his ears.
He didn’t wait to see if any of them would get back up. He shoved the Colt into his waistband, kicked open the front door, and stepped into the moonlit street.
The town was mostly dark, but curtains twitched here and there. A single lantern bobbed near the far end of the street. Muldoon’s place, maybe. Anthony didn’t have time to explain.
He ran for the hitching post, untying his mare with fumbling hands. His arm throbbed where the knife had cut him, but the pain was distant, drowned in adrenaline.
A shout went up behind him. One of the wounded men had staggered to the doorway.
Anthony swung into the saddle, heels digging into the mare’s flanks. She surged forward, hooves striking sparks from the hard-packed dirt.
Bullets chased him down the street, snapping past in the dark.
Then the town was behind him, swallowed by the open land and the cold silver of the moon.
He didn’t stop riding until the lights of Silver Cross were just a memory and the only sound was the wind in the grass.
Anthony slowed the mare, letting her catch her breath. He glanced back once, but there was nothing in the darkness behind him.
For now, he’d bought himself a little space. But Vanburgh wouldn’t stop.
Tonight had proven that. Next time, they wouldn’t be so careless.
Anthony tightened his grip on the Colt, the metal warm from his hand. The sheriff had taken it earlier, and now he’d gotten it back the hard way. He’d keep it close from now on.
If Vanburgh wanted a fight, then Anthony would give him one. On his own terms.