Chapter 15
Anthony had been patient. More patient than he thought himself capable of.
The ridge was his perch, and the night was his shroud. From where he crouched, the road below was narrow. Any wagon rolling through would be forced into single file. He had chosen this spot for that very reason.
Tonight wasn’t about anger. It wasn’t even about the barrels. Not directly. Tonight was about Lyle Tate. If Anthony could get Tate alive . . . if he could pry loose the truth from that thick skull and louder mouth, it might finally give shape to the whispers Abigail and Brigg had pieced together.
Vanburgh was the head of the snake, but Tate was one of the fangs. Breaking him could draw venom enough to expose the whole body.
Anthony shifted, muscles stiff from the long hours. The night had stretched, and his patience was thinning. He had begun to wonder if Brigg had misheard or if Tate had chosen another trail.
Then he heard it.
First, the creak of wood, then the shuffle of hooves, then men’s voices cutting the silence.
Anthony’s heart slowed rather than quickened. The waiting was over. The work had begun.
The convoy came into sight. Two wagons with their lanterns swaying. Riders flanked the sides with rifles across saddles. At the very front rode Tate, sitting proud in the saddle as if the world itself bowed beneath his boots.
Anthony pressed himself lower against the ridge, studying the rhythm of their movement. He counted seven riders: Tate plus six. Maybe a guard or two in the wagons as well. More than he’d like, but less than he feared.
The men were careless, too confident. They hadn’t expected trouble on this road, not from one fugitive who ought to have been dangling from Muldoon’s rope.
Anthony’s lips tightened. That arrogance was the gap he needed.
He moved quickly, circling along the ridge until he was ahead of them before slipping down through the brush until the ground leveled near the road. A thicket of juniper gave him cover, no more than thirty paces from where Tate would pass.
He readied the lasso loop coiled at his belt. The rope was quieter than the gun, and if the throw was true, it could end this without a single shot fired.
The wagons groaned closer. Anthony’s muscles coiled. His breath stilled.
Tate’s chestnut Mustang stallion came even with the thicket. Anthony sprang.
The rope whistled through the dark, its loop flashing wide then snapping tight around Tate’s torso. The man let out a strangled curse as the yank dragged him sideways from the saddle. His rifle clattered into the dirt as horse and rider parted.
Anthony hauled back hard, pulling Tate across the ground and away from the horse’s hooves.
“Down!” Anthony barked, his voice sharp, cutting through the chaos.
For a flicker, the plan looked like it might have worked. Tate was on his back, tangled in rope. He was stunned.
But then the riders shouted, guns cracking into the night. Bullets tore through the dirt near Anthony’s boots. Horses whinnied, and the wagons began grinding to a halt.
Anthony dove, rolling behind the cover of brush and dragging Tate with him like a hooked fish. Tate roared and thrashed, but the rope held.
Two riders dismounted, charging toward the thicket. Anthony cursed under his breath. He yanked his Colt free and fired. One shot exploded clean into the chest of the first rider. The man dropped heavy, rifle tumbling loose.
The second fired wildly in panic. Anthony answered with a shot that caught him in the gut. The man folded with a groan, collapsing into the dirt.
Anthony ducked back as his ears began to ring. Tate was cursing in every direction, spitting dust and trying to claw free of the rope.
“You bastard!” Tate shouted. “You don’t know who you’re crossing!”
Anthony shoved him flat with a boot to the chest. “Quiet.”
The other riders scrambled. Some were dismounting, some firing toward the thicket. Torchlight made every shadow dance and every movement uncertain. The wagons stood at a crooked halt, one horse already rearing against its harness.
Anthony pressed Tate down harder with his boot, gun steady in his hand.
“Tell your men to back off,” Anthony said. “Or you’re the first one I put in the ground.”
Tate snarled, but the cold press of the Colt’s barrel against his jaw made his bluster falter. He spat again, then shouted toward the wagons. “Hold! Don’t fire!”
The riders hesitated. Their rifles wavered. None of them wanted to be the man who pulled the trigger while Tate was staring down death.
Anthony crouched low, keeping Tate between himself and the rifles.
“You’re coming with me,” he said for Tate’s ears alone.
“The hell I am.” Tate bucked under him, straining against the rope. “You think you’ll drag me out like a hog to slaughter?” he asked. “You don’t know what Vanburgh’ll do to you!”
Anthony’s eyes were cold, the weight of memory behind them. “Vanburgh already did worse to me, Tate,” he replied. “You’re just payment on the debt.”
The men by the wagons shifted. One raised his rifle, and Anthony fired without hesitation. One sharp crack punched dirt an inch from the man’s boots. The rider jerked back and lowered his rifle.
Anthony dragged Tate upright, twisting the rope tighter and forcing him to stumble along toward the brush. “You’re my shield now,” he said. “Move.”
Tate’s face was red with rage, but the Colt never left his ribs.
Step by step, Anthony backed into the shadows, dragging Tate with him. The riders shouted, but none dared fire with their boss square in the way.
By the time Anthony reached the slope of the ridge again, the wagons were in chaos behind them. There were horses straining, men yelling, and lanterns bobbing wildly in the dark.
“Get back here, you son of a . . .” one voice shouted, but it was swallowed by the distance as Anthony hauled Tate up the slope.
They reached cover, both breathing ragged. Tate stumbled, tripped, and cursed, but the rope held him fast.
Anthony shoved him against the rocks, gun still steady. “That’s far enough.”
Tate glared back, sweat streaking his dirt-caked face. “You think you’ll get a word out of me?” he asked. “You’re crazy.”
“Oh, you’ll talk,” Anthony said quietly. “Not because you want to. Because you’ll see what happens when you don’t.”
Tate spat at his boots, but Anthony didn’t flinch. He tightened the rope once more, then shoved the man forward into the deeper dark of the ridge.
The convoy below was in uproar, but they’d be slow to follow. Tate was the prize, and Anthony had him.
He shoved Tate deeper into the shadows of the ridge, keeping the rope tight. The noise from the convoy grew faint behind them. None of it mattered now. Tate was here, bound and breathing. That was all Anthony needed.
He pressed him hard against a boulder. Tate grunted, his cheek scraping the stone. The man’s eyes burned in the half-dark, but there was something else there too—recognition.
“I knew it,” Tate spat, his voice rough. “Knew this day’d come sooner or later. You’re still mad about it. About your kin. About the way they fell.”
Anthony’s chest tightened.
Tate grinned despite the rope cutting into his arms. “Whole tribe, wasn’t it? Thought you could set down roots in this valley, thought you could hold it,” Tate continued. “But roots burn easy when the land’s marked for men like Vanburgh. For men like me.”
Anthony’s hand twitched on the Colt. He wanted to end it here. A single squeeze and Tate would be nothing but silence and dust. But silence wouldn’t give him the truth. Silence wouldn’t bring justice.
Justice. That word had burned in him ever since the day he came back and saw the black smoke.
Ever since gunfire cracked and killed his family.
He had lived with those echoes, carried them like stones in his chest. Every outlaw who laughed, every lawman who turned away, only made the stones heavier.
“I’m not surprised you dragged me down,” Tate said. “You’ve been waiting for it. Carrying all that hate like a sack on your back. But you won’t get a word out of me. You hear? Not one.”
Anthony’s breath grew sharp in his throat. His hand came up before he knew it. His fist crashed into Tate’s jaw.
The man’s head snapped sideways, blood spraying from his lip. He laughed even through the pain. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Tate asked. “You don’t want my tongue . . . you just want my blood. Same as the rest of us.”
Anthony’s knuckles throbbed, but the sting was nothing compared to the fire climbing through him. He wanted to hit him again. Again and again until the smirk broke and the words turned to begging.
But he forced himself still. His hand shook as he lowered it.
“You’ll talk,” Anthony growled, his voice low and tight. “Not tonight, maybe. Not tomorrow. But you’ll talk. Because the truth’s in you, and I’ll rip it out if I have to.”
Tate spat blood at the dirt. “The truth?” he replied. “You think there’s truth here? The truth is you lost. Your people lost. Vanburgh won. That’s the way of things. The strong take. The weak bury their dead.”
The words cut deeper than the punch.
Anthony looked at him and at the swollen lip. He thought of his aunt’s songs, of his uncle who taught him to read the wind, of his cousin who had run laughing by the creek. All gone now. Their voices taken, their homes burned, their bones scattered in shallow graves.
And here stood one of the men who had helped it happen, daring to grin, daring to speak as if it were nothing.
Anthony leaned close, pressing the Colt against Tate’s chest. “You think I’m weak?” Anthony asked. “You think they’re gone without memory? No. They live in me. Every step I take. You’ll carry them too before I’m finished. You’ll carry their weight with me.”
For once, Tate’s eyes flickered. Not fear, but something else. Unease.
Anthony saw it and held it. He holstered the Colt, then tightened the rope around Tate’s arms until the man hissed.
“You’ll walk with me now,” Anthony said. “You’ll walk, and you’ll answer. And if you don’t, then maybe you’ll learn what real losing feels like.”
He shoved Tate forward into the dark, his own anger burning steady.
Justice wasn’t here yet, but it was closer.