Chapter 29
Anthony sat with his back against a boulder, the faint glow of the campfire throwing just enough light to catch the sharp planes of his face. The flames were small, but they licked against the stone as if even they were too restless to stay still. Abigail sat opposite him with her knees drawn up.
The silence pressed down on them from the ridges above, broken only by the snap of the fire and the far-off trickle of the creek. They must have stayed in the same position for hours.
Neither one of them could sleep.
Their bodies were worn, but their minds kept circling back to the same place: the canyon beyond where Vanburgh’s men were said to be hammering their powder into the bones of Eagle Rock.
Abigail’s voice broke the stillness first. “Brigg must be halfway to Denver by now,” she murmured. “If he makes it through without Vanburgh’s men cutting him off, he’ll bring back the law.”
Her tone was quiet and steady on the surface, but Anthony heard the strain underneath. The doubt. He kept his gaze on the fire a moment longer, then lifted his eyes to hers.
“That’s a mighty big if, ma’am,” he said.
The flames glinted in his dark pupils, restless as the thought itself.
“Vanburgh don’t wait on judges,” he continued.
“By the time Brigg gets back with papers stamped in Denver, this canyon may already be dust. Vanburgh’s not the patient sort.
He’ll light his fuses the second he sees profit in the rubble. ”
Abigail looked down, her hands knotting together in her lap. “Then we don’t wait either.”
“You’re saying what I’ve been thinking, ma’am,” Anthony replied. “We need to know what he’s building down there. How far along he is . . . And the only way to learn is to walk right into the wolf’s den.”
She shook her head slightly, though not in refusal. “That’s no den,” she said. “That’s a whole nest, and every one of those men carries teeth. We ride down blind, we don’t ride back out. But if we slip in unseen . . .”
“Then we see what cards he’s holding,” Anthony finished. His eyes had gone to the horizon again, the black line of the ridges cutting against the stars.
The fire spat once, and silence settled again. Abigail shifted closer, just enough that her shadow mingled with his across the dirt.
“You’ve carried this fight on your back since the day we met,” she said softly. “But it’s not yours alone anymore. The Shoshone, Brigg, me . . . we’re all tied in it now. You don’t have to bear it yourself.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched before his features softened. He looked at her across the fire.
“Maybe not, ma’am,” he admitted. “But if it all goes wrong, it won’t be you they hang. Vanburgh’s painted me the outlaw, the half-breed stirring trouble. He’ll call me the match that lit this whole valley. If someone’s got to shoulder the blame, I don’t mind carrying that cross.”
Abigail’s eyes flashed. She leaned toward him, her voice low and fierce.
“Don’t you dare talk like that,” she said. “I didn’t stay behind just to watch you throw your life away.”
The night seemed to pause. Only the fire cracked between them. Then Anthony let out a quiet chuckle, though it carried no real humor.
“You’re stubborn as a mule, ma’am,” he said.
“And twice as useful,” she shot back, a smile tugging faintly at her lips before it faded just as quickly.
He poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks snapping upward. “We ought to sleep,” he muttered, though he didn’t move to lie down.
“Can you?” Abigail asked.
Anthony looked up, his face half in shadow. “No,” he admitted.
Neither of them spoke after that. But the silence wasn’t restful. It was thick and crawling, as if the whole basin listened to their breathing. Abigail stared into the flames until her eyes burned, then finally stood.
“We won’t find sleep tonight. So why pretend?”
Anthony’s brow lifted slightly. “What’re you saying?”
“Let’s go see,” she said simply. “If Vanburgh’s camp is there and if his men are stringing the wires, if the powder’s already set . . . we need to know. I’d rather face it than sit here stewing in guesses.”
Anthony studied her for a long moment before standing as well, brushing dirt from his pants. He slung his bow across his chest. “You’ve got grit,” he said.
Her lips curved faintly, though her hands were tight around her jacket. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They stamped out the last of the fire and slipped into the dark.
The stars were sharp above them, cold and endless. The moon had dipped behind the mountains, leaving the valley floor in blackness so complete that every crunch of gravel beneath their boots felt deafening.
Anthony moved ahead, his eyes flicking to every shifting shadow. Abigail followed closely behind with her gun at the ready.
“Easy now,” Anthony whispered, raising a hand. “Camp should be just beyond the bend. You smell that?”
Abigail lifted her head and sniffed. “Sulfur,” she said. “Powder.”
“Dynamite,” Anthony muttered. “He’s wiring the whole canyon.”
They pressed forward, hugging the rocks until the land opened like a wound before them. Lanterns dotted the canyon floor below them in broken constellations. Men moved between them.
There were shadows carrying crates, hammering spikes, and dragging coils of wire up the canyon walls. Horses stamped and snorted in a row at the far edge, restless with the smell of powder.
Abigail crouched beside Anthony, her breath quick in the cold air. “There must be thirty men,” she whispered. “Maybe more.”
Anthony studied the sight with narrowed eyes. “And every one of them is working toward the same end. They’ll bury this valley under rock and call it progress.”
“So, what now?” Abigail asked, shifting her gaze toward him. “We can’t just walk down there.”
“No,” Anthony said. “We get close enough to learn the layout. See where they’ve set their charges. If we know their hand, we’ll know where to cut.”
They slid along the slope carefully. A guard’s lantern swung past once, so close that Abigail could see the man’s beard bristle in the light. She held her breath until the glow drifted away. Anthony motioned her on, moving with the patience of a hunter.
At the canyon floor, they pressed against a wall of stone. Two workers tramped by, hauling a crate between them.
“Careful, damn you,” one hissed. “That box will take half the ridge if you drop it.”
“Soon, as Vanburgh gives the word,” the other grumbled, “we’ll light her up. Then it’s goodbye to Hawk and his Indian friends.”
Their laughter faded into the clamor of the camp.
Abigail’s eyes met Anthony’s in the dark, her breath sharp. “They’re ready for you,” she whispered.
“They think they are,” Anthony said. “But dynamite’s a fickle friend. Mishandle it, and it kills the one who struck the match.”
They crept deeper, ducking behind canvas-covered stacks. Every few yards, Anthony spotted bundles of dynamite wedged into crevices, their fuses snaking toward the wires hammered into the rock. He memorized each placement, each bundle, and each coil.
Abigail crouched by one such bundle, her hands hovering above the wires.
“They’re anchoring them at the base,” she whispered. “It’ll make the whole wall cave in. They’ll claim it was an accident.”
“Vanburgh’s lies always wear a suit,” Anthony replied.
They edged further until a raised platform came into view. A table stood there beneath twin lanterns with maps pinned flat and wires leading into a heavy detonator box. A tall man leaned over the table, his bowler hat shadowing sharp features.
Even from here, Anthony knew him.
“Vanburgh,” he breathed.
Abigail followed his gaze, her lips parting. “That’s him.”
The railroad tycoon stood clean while his men sweated in the dust, his eyes cutting over every task. His voice carried like a blade. Workers scrambled to obey.
“We could end it now,” Abigail said, leaning closer. “One shot.”
“Not here, ma’am,” Anthony replied, shaking his head. “Not with all these rifles around. We strike blind, we die for nothing. We need a way to gut his plan first.”
They lingered in the shadows, watching. Vanburgh pointed at the walls as men climbed with fuses slung across their shoulders. Others tested the wires, hammering connections into place.
Abigail’s hand brushed Anthony’s sleeve. “How long until they’re ready?”
“Not long,” he said. “Once Denver knows about the deeds, Vanburgh will want this canyon erased. He can’t risk the truth standing.”
“Then what do we do, Anthony?” Abigail asked, swallowing hard.
He looked at her, steady as stone. “We wait,” Anthony said. “Then we cut the wires, scatter the men, and strike when it counts. For now, we watch.”
They crouched there as hours stretched thin as wire. Lantern light threw long shadows across the walls. Every clang of hammer and scrape of metal set Abigail’s nerves on edge. Anthony stayed unflinching, marking every crate.
Finally, the camp began to settle. Vanburgh retreated to his tent as his guards paced into their posts. Anthony touched Abigail’s arm. “Time.”
They climbed back toward the ridgeline, retracing each careful step. When at last they reached the top and the sounds faded to murmurs below, Abigail let out a shaky breath.
“That was madness,” she whispered. “One slip and they’d have killed us.”
Anthony’s gaze stayed on the lanterns burning faintly in the canyon. “One slip and they’d have killed more than us,” he said. “It would all have been ash.”
Abigail turned toward him, her face pale but fierce in the starlight. “Can we even stop this?”
“We can, ma’am,” Anthony replied calmly. “We’ve got the land, the shadows, and the will to fight for it. He’s got the numbers, but we’ll find the crack in his walls. We always do.”
She held his gaze, and in the hush between them, the weight of what they’d seen pressed close. Neither spoke. The stars wheeled slowly above, and the canyon below glimmered with the light of Vanburgh’s ambition.
“We’ll bide our time,” he said quietly. “But he won’t see us coming.”
With that, they crouched on the ridgeline side by side and stared down into the pit of fire and powder that waited below.