Chapter 31
The sun had barely touched the valley floor when Anthony shaded his eyes toward the horizon.
“Rider,” he said flatly.
Abigail rose from her crouch near the fire, scanning the haze of dust trailing across the basin. The horse labored, and its rider was slouched low, shoulders sagging as though the saddle itself might pitch him.
Her breath caught. “It’s Brigg.”
Anthony nodded once, already moving from the cottonwoods where they’d kept camp.
The rider drew near, and what little relief Abigail felt must have faded fast because her body deflated. Brigg’s hat was gone. Blood streaked his temple. His left arm hung stiff against his side. The horse slid to a halt, legs trembling from the long ride.
“You look like hell,” Anthony said, catching Brigg as he half-fell from the saddle.
“Rode through worse than hell,” Brigg muttered, teeth clenched. He sank against the roots of a tree, boots dragging dust.
“You’re hurt,” Abigail said, crouching beside him.
“Not dead, Doc. That’s what counts.” Brigg’s grin lasted a breath before fading. “Ambush. Twenty miles out. They came for me.”
“Vanburgh’s men?” Anthony asked.
“Sure as sin. Five of them,” he said. “Silas led the pack. Wesley too. They didn’t want the deed first . . . They wanted me cold.”
“How many made it out?” Anthony pressed.
“Three didn’t. Two won’t be riding far.” He flexed his good hand with a wince. “I damn near didn’t crawl away.”
“Let me look at your arm,” Abigail said, reaching for him.
“Later,” Brigg cut in. “First, I gotta speak it straight.”
Anthony crouched beside him, eyes dark. “Go on.”
“I reached Denver. Found the judge,” Brigg said, drawing a ragged breath. “Showed him the deed copies, laid it plain what Vanburgh’s scheming. He didn’t need much convincing. Said he’ll come himself . . . with a marshal. Said he’ll make the tribal claim law, haul Vanburgh to the bench.”
Anthony’s shoulders eased, but Brigg lifted a finger.
“One catch,” he said. “He won’t ride for seven days. Courts move slow, and he’s got duties to settle before leaving.”
“A week?” Abigail whispered. “We don’t have that long.”
“No,” Brigg said bitterly. “Vanburgh ain’t waiting. Not after last night. He’s near ready to blow that canyon wide open.”
Anthony’s voice was quiet. “We saw the wires. Powder stacked like cordwood.”
Brigg spat into the dirt. “So there it is. Law’s crawling. Vanburgh’s ready to light the fuse before the judge even hits the county line.”
Abigail’s chin lifted. “Then we fight.”
“We may have no choice,” Anthony agreed.
“Fight?” Brigg barked out a short laugh. “We’re three souls against thirty rifles.”
“Three souls,” Anthony said, “and more if the Shoshone stand. The council split, remember? Most turned us down, too fearful of a massacre. But some pledged. Enough to matter.”
“Maybe,” Brigg muttered. “But if Vanburgh lights that powder before the judge arrives, none of this matters.”
“If the originals are destroyed, the judge has nothing to uphold,” Abigail sighed.
Brigg studied her. “You want me to carry them again?”
Anthony stayed silent.
“That’s it, ain’t it?” Brigg said. “You want me gone from the fight, riding east, while you two hold the fort.”
“You’re the only one who can swear to the judge you kept the deed safe,” Abigail said firmly. “If you fall here, we lose everything.”
“You reckon you can hold Vanburgh off tomorrow?” Brigg asked Anthony.
“We’ll hold as long as it takes,” Anthony replied, voice like stone.
Brigg let out a long whistle. “Damn stubborn man.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Brigg closed his eyes, head against the tree. “All right, I’ll ride. Though my bones curse me for it.”
“It’s not retreat,” Abigail said softly. “It’s survival.”
He cracked one eye open. “Survival don’t make it easier.”
Anthony stepped away, gaze fixed on the mountains. “Nothing about this will be easy. Not for any of us.”
“You got a plan?” Brigg called after him.
“Not yet,” Anthony said, half-turned. “But I will.”
***
The fire hissed down to coals as Abigail bound Brigg’s arm with torn cloth. He endured the touch with grit, sweat streaking his face.
“Bullet grazed the bone,” she murmured. “You’re lucky.”
“Never figured luck for my partner,” Brigg said.
“You need rest.”
“What I need is a fresh horse and to keep moving,” he said.
Anthony returned with his bow in hand, eyes scanning the ridges. “He’s right. Vanburgh won’t let him ride free a second time. He’ll throw more men on the road.”
“Then I’ll ride light,” Brigg said. “Change trails often. I know these hills better than they do.”
“Not better than his men,” Anthony warned.
Brigg’s mouth twisted. “I put a hole through Silas’s side. He won’t be chasing quick.”
“Wounded men hate deepest,” Anthony said.
Brigg chuckled dryly. “Then I reckon he’ll remember my name.”
Abigail tied the last knot firmly. “There. It’ll hold for now. Don’t push harder than you have to.”
“Doc, this ride is all push,” Brigg said. He flexed his hand once, winced, then stilled.
Anthony leaned his bow against the tree, crouching low. “We’ll cover your ride out. We’ll draw eyes away from the eastern pass. You take the northern cut and don’t look back.”
Brigg met his gaze. “And when I’m gone?”
“We strike,” Anthony said.
Abigail’s breath caught, but she didn’t argue. She only looked at Anthony, her eyes steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Brigg glanced between them, then sighed. “Hell. Maybe the judge will make it. Maybe you’ll live long enough to hear his gavel. Either way, I’ll carry your words to him.”
Anthony gave the faintest nod. “That’s all we need.”
The cottonwoods rustled above them, the air sharp with dust and pine. The sun climbed slowly over the basin, dragging light across their worn faces.
Time pressed close. Every heartbeat carried them nearer to the storm.
Anthony leaned back against the tree with his bow balanced across his knees. His eyes were fixed on Brigg. He was tired, bleeding, and still too stubborn to quit. He had seen men like that before. Good men who pushed themselves beyond reason, who rode until the ground itself swallowed them.
Most of them never made it home. Brigg was tough, no doubt, but toughness had its limits.
If Vanburgh’s men caught him again, there was going to be no judge, no marshal, and certainly no law in Denver who would save Eagle Rock.
The weight of that truth coiled in his chest. He told Brigg they’d cover him, draw eyes away from the pass. But he knew the truth. The moment Brigg turned north, every rifle in Vanburgh’s pocket would be combing these ridges. It would be a miracle if the man reached Denver alive.
Yet, miracles were what they needed now.
Anthony’s gaze shifted to Abigail. She knelt still at Brigg’s side, her hands steady though her face was pale. There was something in the way she looked at Brigg. She wasn’t afraid of work or wounds. She wasn’t afraid of tomorrow, though she should have been.
That steadiness frightened Anthony more than panic ever could. Because she was tethering herself to him. To his fight and his choices. If he fell, she’d be dragged under, too.
He exhaled through his nose.
The land itself seemed to press closer. The ridges were no longer ridges. They were walls reminding him of the weight of tomorrow. He could almost see Vanburgh’s men crouched behind the rocks with their rifles at the ready. The air smelled of pine now, but by tomorrow it would be smoke and sulfur.
Then there were the Shoshone. He thought of Black Wolf’s eyes in the council firelight. Some of the young braves had stepped forward, pledging to ride. Not many. Enough to matter, maybe. But where were they now?
Would they come? Or did their courage end with their words?
He hated that doubt. He wanted to believe. But men had families. Tribes had seen too much fire already. Fear was heavier than bullets, and Vanburgh’s shadow stretched long.
If the Shoshone did not come, it would be him and Abigail against Vanburgh’s war chest. A canyon full of rifles and dynamite.
Anthony’s jaw clenched. He thought of what he had told Abigail about cutting off his head and letting the body scatter. He still believed it. Men like Vanburgh weren’t followed out of loyalty. They were followed out of fear and coin.
But that meant reaching him. That meant walking through powder trails and iron muzzles to strike at the heart of the beast.
Anthony closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Vanburgh’s smirk and his polished boots standing in Eagle Rock’s dust, his hand resting on ledgers that turned men into figures and land into numbers. He saw the canyon torn wide and the basin swallowed in fire.
No. He wouldn’t let it happen.
When his eyes opened again, the fire was nearly gone, and the coals were faint and red. Abigail looked across at him, catching his gaze for a moment longer than she should have. He saw the question in her eyes.
What about us?
He had no answer. Not tonight.
Tomorrow was war.