Chapter 10
The mountains loomed black against the stars. Their peaks were lost in drifting summer clouds. Anthony pushed his mare along the rocky trail, every hoofbeat muffled by the dry night air.
The cut on his forearm stung whenever the reins pulled against it. It was a shallow slice from the knife one of the men had tried to stick him with back in Silver Cross. Not enough to slow him down, but enough to remind him how close the night had already come.
By the time the first pale light of dawn brushed the eastern ridgeline, he had put ten miles between himself and the jail.
The high country greeted him with the hiss of wind in pine needles. Somewhere below, a thin stream wound its way through the valley. Its surface glinted in the faint moonlight.
Anthony stopped just long enough to let Spirit drink. His eyes were constantly scanning the horizon. The trail he had taken forked twice. Anyone following would have to choose right.
Hoofbeats reached him first. They were faint at first, but then they grew under the hush of the trees.
Anthony’s gut tightened. He knew that sound. It belonged to men who could ride all night without speaking.
A few moments later, voices cut through the dark.
“You see any signs?” a deep voice asked.
“Fresh,” another replied. “Goin’ north. That’ll be him.”
Anthony knew the names from town talk and saloon whispers.
Krell, Boone, and Sykes.
They were men with reputations built on bringing in targets fast and quiet, with no fuss about whether they were still breathing. They weren’t hired to chase the kind of people who gave up easily.
Anthony swung back into the saddle and steered up the slope, leaving the trail entirely. The rocky ground was punishing on Spirit, but it wouldn’t leave prints.
An hour later, the sound of their mounts still carried faintly through the timber. Anthony eased the mare under a canopy of trees, letting the shadows swallow him whole. He slid from the saddle quietly.
Through the branches, he caught sight of three riders spreading out.
Their rifles were across their knees. Even at a distance, the silhouettes were unmistakable.
Boone was riding high in the stirrups, Krell with his head hunched forward like a wolf, and Sykes turning in the saddle as he scanned the trees.
“Easy now, girl,” Anthony said to the horse.
The riders slowed at the fork where his trail had vanished.
Krell pointed toward the slope. “Tracks end here,” he said.
“That means he’s close,” Boone said, his head moving on a swivel.
Anthony’s fingers brushed the butt of his Colt Navy revolver. However, he did not want to make a lot of noise; it might draw unwanted attention.
Who knew who else was out here with the three bounty hunters?
That meant shooting his way out wasn’t an option. Not yet.
He stayed low and let them pass.
By midnight, the heat from the day had drained away, leaving the mountains cool and still. A thin haze from distant campfires clung low in the hollows.
Anthony led Spirit along a dry creek bed, then doubled back over a granite shelf. He couldn’t leave any signs on the stone. From there, he slipped into a gully choked with brush.
It felt good to walk after spending so long in the saddle, but Anthony couldn’t enjoy the peace for long.
The voices came again an hour later.
“He’s gotta be close. Horse can’t run forever.”
Anthony kept low, slipping through the gully brush. He was careful not to let a twig snap underfoot. A flicker of movement gave him away. It was a branch shifting as he passed.
“There!” Sykes shouted, spurring toward the spot.
Anthony was already moving the other way, weaving through the brush. He scrambled up the far side of the gully and slid behind a boulder.
Below, the riders crashed through the thicket.
“See him?” Sykes asked.
“Nothing,” Boone replied. “Damn echo in here.”
Anthony picked up a loose stone and hurled it down the slope. It clattered hard against the creek bed.
The hunters spurred toward the sound.
Anthony took the moment to slip away again, cresting a rise that led to an old logging road.
By the time he found the half-rotten hunter’s shack on the ridge, the night was deep and still. The roof sagged, and one shutter banged softly in the wind. But it would do for shelter.
He got Spirit into the lean-to and stripped the saddle.
“Rest now,” he said, patting the mare on the neck. “Rest while you can.”
A voice carried on the breeze. It was closer than it should have been. “You check the ridgeline? Cabin’s just ahead.”
Anthony swore under his breath. They were closer than he had thought.
No time to run.
He slipped to the far side of the cabin and grabbed the knife from his gun belt. It was the only weapon he felt comfortable enough to use.
The first rider appeared out of the dark. Boone, with his Winchester rifle at the ready.
Anthony held his breath, but it wasn’t enough. There was a reason why these bounty hunters had such a reputation. They were good at their job.
Boone jerked his rifle up, searching the shadows. “Where the hell are you?”
Anthony didn’t dare to blink. He stared at Boone and hoped he would walk away. He didn’t.
“He’s here!” Boone shouted, diving from his horse and rolling toward the nearest cover.
Two more riders came in fast, fanning out. Sykes and Krell.
“Spread out!” Krell barked. “He can’t get all of us!”
Anthony slipped back inside the cabin and eased the rear door open. The ground was hard-packed. There were no tracks to betray him.
He made it twenty yards before a voice rang out. “There! By the pines!”
Anthony broke into a sprint, weaving between trunks as rifle shots cracked past him. Bark splintered at his shoulder.
He dove over a fallen log. He rolled. Then, he came up running. One bullet hissed by his ear. Another slammed into the dirt at his feet.
He ran until the gunfire faded.
Night wrapped the mountains tight. The stars burned clear overhead, and the air smelled of dust.
Anthony found a shallow cave and ducked inside before pressing his back to the stone. He tore a strip from his shirt and bound the cut on his arm. It wasn’t deep, but it would bleed enough to leave a trail if he didn’t cover it.
He assumed it would have healed by now. Evidently, all the running wasn’t good for the healing process.
Down in the valley, faint voices drifted up.
“You think he’s still movin’?”
“He’s gotta be,” Boone replied. “Krell says Vanburgh’ll pay double if we bring him in quick.”
Anthony shook his head slowly. Was everybody working for that monster?
“Come find me,” he murmured.
A branch cracked somewhere below. Footsteps.
Anthony slid along the rock wall until he could look down on them.
“You figure he’s in them rocks?” one of the three whispered.
“Only place warm enough to hole up,” Boone said. “We find the horse, we find him.”
They moved slowly and carefully. They were men who knew what they were hunting.
Thirty yards. Twenty.
“Krell, you take the left,” Sykes said. “I’ll circle the back.”
They approached. Closer and closer. Eventually, the three bounty hunters were so close that Anthony could hear them breathing. He could hear their hearts beating.
It wasn’t fear. It was adrenaline. How could they have been afraid in a situation like this? Anthony was outnumbered, and they knew they had the upper hand.
“You shouldn’t have come up here,” Anthony said. His voice was just above a whisper.
Boone’s head snapped up, rifle swinging toward the sound. He never got a shot off; Anthony dropped from the rock and slammed him to the dirt.
Without any hesitation, he drove the knife into Boone’s chest.
The man went limp without a sound.
“Boone?” Sykes called out.
Anthony didn’t answer. He slipped back into the dark. His breathing was slow.
“He’s up there!” Sykes barked. “Fan out!”
Two rifles opened up. Splinters of bark stung Anthony’s cheek. He counted their shots, moving low.
When the pause came, he ghosted fifty yards along the ridge. He was almost there. Freedom was close; he just had to put some distance between them.