Chapter 26
The trail wound away from the Shoshone camp in long bends, leading the trio to the edge of the forested ridges.
Anthony rode in front, his dark hat low over his eyes. Every movement of his head was deliberate as he scanned the woods. Brigg lagged behind, his tan Thoroughbred restless under his weight. He rode stiffly, his eyes jumping from branch to branch.
Abigail noticed it first and leaned forward in her saddle. “You look uneasy, Deputy,” she said.
Deputy Thomas Brigg shot her a sharp look, then shook his head.
“Uneasy? I’m plain spooked, ma’am,” he replied.
“Riding with Anthony Hawk through these woods, I might as well paint a target on my back. If anybody catches sight of me with him, Vanburgh won’t need a reason to hang me.
He’ll call me a traitor. Law office will turn on me quicker than a rattler. I ain’t got a death wish.”
Anthony glanced over his shoulder, his gaze cool but steady. “Then turn back.”
“Didn’t say I would,” the deputy replied, shifting in his saddle again. “Just don’t like it. Word gets out, and I’ll have more than Vanburgh’s men breathing down my neck. The law’s hungry for a scapegoat. They’d be glad to make me one.”
Anthony said nothing. The silence pressed upon them until Abigail broke it with her calm voice.
“We’ve already walked into Vanburgh’s fire once,” she said. “You’re still here, Brigg. That means something.”
“Means my luck’s stretched thin,” he replied.
Anthony didn’t argue. He knew the deputy wasn’t wrong. He felt it too—the tightening noose and the way the land itself seemed to whisper with Vanburgh’s reach.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. No bird chatter. No rustle of squirrels. Only the steady creak of saddle leather and the faint rush of a hidden stream somewhere in the distance.
Anthony raised a hand, slowing Spirit to a walk. “Something feels off.”
“You feel it too?” the deputy asked, sliding his hand to the revolver in his gun belt.
Anthony nodded. His eyes roamed the shadows between the trunks.
“It’s like the forest is holding its breath,” he said.
Abigail’s voice dropped. “How many?”
“Too many if they’re smart,” Anthony said. “Vanburgh’s patience is running thin. Cheaper to send bounty hunters than to bribe another judge.”
Brigg gave a grim chuckle. “And a bullet costs less than both.”
They pressed forward, slower now. Anthony’s shoulders drew tight, and his instincts were burning. Then it came—a faint scrape of leather against bark.
Quickly, Anthony pulled on his reins. “Come out,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm. “You’ve got us. No use hiding.”
The woods came alive with the sound of rifles being cocked. Shadows shifted, and five men stepped from cover. They emerged from behind boulders, trees, and fallen logs, their guns leveled.
The one in front was tall and broad. He tugged at the brim of his hat.
“Hawk,” he drawled. “Never thought you’d be fool enough to ride these woods. Looks like it’s payday.”
Anthony’s eyes flicked over him. He recognized him immediately. “Krell.”
Behind him, another man spat into the dirt. “Sykes,” Anthony said.
“You won’t forget us once you’re in the ground,” Sykes replied with a grin.
He had run into these bounty hunters before. Now, they were back for more.
Two others flanked them. They were hard-eyed and rough. At the back, an unshaven young man held his Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolver with a tremor that ran all the way up his arm.
Krell spoke again, voice loud. “Vanburgh’s paying good coin,” he said. “Hundred dollars, dead or alive. That’s easy money for Boone’s killer.”
Anthony’s hand tightened on the reins. Boone. He remembered that hunt. His jaw hardened.
“Boone got what he earned,” Anthony said.
Sykes laughed, the sound harsh as gravel. “You’ll say the same when it’s your turn?”
“Try me,” Anthony replied.
Krell jerked his chin. “Boys—”
The word had barely left his lips before Anthony’s Colt 1851 Navy was whipped out of his holster. Thunder cracked through the trees. Krell jerked backward, his grin vanishing in a bloom of red as he collapsed into the needles.
Chaos broke loose.
“Down!” Anthony roared, spurring his mare aside and diving behind a thick pine.
Deputy Brigg grabbed the Winchester Model 1866 rifle from his saddle and fired once, the bark splintering off a log where one rifleman crouched. Abigail slid from her mare, dragging both herself and the animal behind the shelter of a boulder.
Bullets screamed through branches. Powder smoke bit the air.
Anthony fired again and clipped one man’s shoulder. “Brigg—left flank!”
“I see him!” Brigg barked back, crouching low, firing steadily as he advanced. His jaw was set, and his eyes were hard. Despite his earlier fear, the deputy’s aim was true.
The woods rang with gunfire. Abigail crouched behind the boulder, clutching her Colt Paterson revolver in both hands. It was small and underpowered compared to the rifles, but her grip was steady. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she peeked out.
Anthony rolled across the dirt and reloaded.
“Abigail,” he called out. “Watch the right side!”
She fired, her revolver cracking. A cry followed. One of the bounty men stumbled, clutching his thigh before collapsing into the pine needles.
“Hell of a shot, Doc!” Brigg said over the gunfire.
Sykes roared from his cover, his rifle thundering. Bark exploded inches from Anthony’s head. He dove toward the ground and raised his Colt before firing twice.
The old bounty hunter staggered, hit square in the chest. His rifle clattered into the dirt as he fell backward into silence.
That left two.
The shooting slowed, and the smoke started drifting.
Brigg was the one to call out next.
“You boys picked the wrong trail!” he said. “Hawk ain’t dying easy. Take your boots and run, or we’ll plant you where you stand.”
Silence held. Then a voice cracked through it, high and panicked.
“To hell with this. I’m done!” One of the men bolted, crashing through the undergrowth. His rifle was abandoned.
The last one was the boy. He crouched behind a fallen log with his revolver shaking in his hands. He fired once. The shot smacked into the boulder near Abigail. His nerve broke. With a cry, he flung the Smith & Wesson aside. Then, he stumbled out from cover with his hands high.
“Don’t shoot!” he begged. His knees hit the dirt, and his face was as pale as chalk. “Please, don’t shoot! I don’t want no part of this!”
Anthony rose from behind the tree before closing the distance between them. His gaze was unreadable.
The boy’s breath came in ragged bursts. “They told me it’d be easy money, mister,” he said. “Just easy money. I didn’t know it’d be you. Please, I don’t wanna die.”
Brigg came up slowly to the side, Colt still out but his eyes on Anthony. “Well?”
Abigail stepped from cover, too. Her voice was softer. “Anthony.” She didn’t plead, didn’t press. Just said his name, waiting for his choice.
Anthony stared down at the boy. He saw fear, but beneath it all was regret. Desperation. A kid thrown into wolves’ company without the teeth to match.
He holstered his Colt revolver. His voice was flat and cold when he spoke. “Go.”
The boy blinked, stunned. “You . . . you’re letting me live?” he asked.
“Go back to Vanburgh,” Anthony said. “Tell him Hawk is still breathing. Tell him every man he sends will find the same welcome.”
The boy scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward. “Name’s Eli,” he blurted, as though giving it might save him. “Eli Turner. I . . . I’ll tell him. I swear.”
“Go,” Anthony repeated.
Eli bolted, crashing through brush until the forest swallowed him whole. The silence returned, broken only by the thin curl of gun smoke. Brigg finally slung his Winchester over his shoulder, shaking his head.
“You’re either wise as Solomon or foolish as sin,” he said. “Can’t say which yet. If that boy runs his mouth, the whole county will know I was here.”
Anthony turned to him slowly. “Word travels faster when carried by the living.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the deputy replied, pulling his hat down.
Abigail moved closer, her hand brushing Anthony’s sleeve. Her gaze searched his face. “What if he brings more?” she asked. “What if he comes back?”
“Then we’ll be ready, ma’am,” he replied, meeting her eyes.
“Vanburgh will hear soon enough,” Brigg said. “When he does, he’ll come with hell at his back.”
Anthony bent over Krell’s body, stripping spare ammunition and checking the weapons on the bounty hunter’s belt. He worked methodically, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Let him come,” he said.
They gathered what they could, mounted up, and turned down the trail. The forest closed behind them, hiding the bodies and swallowing the echoes of the fight.
Abigail looked once more over her shoulder. “Vanburgh won’t stop,” she said with a sigh.
“No,” Anthony said. “But neither will we.”