Chapter 34
The narrow trail twisted through the scrub and rocks like a thin, gray vein running through the canyon. Deputy Thomas Brigg leaned over his horse’s neck, one hand flexing on the reins, the other close to the satchel containing the deeds.
Every clop of hooves echoed in his mind, each step of the animal a reminder of the distance he needed to put between himself and Eagle Rock. He forced himself to breathe evenly, counting each rotation of the stirrup underfoot.
He had told himself it was simple: ride straight, fast, and keep the originals safe. The judge needed them. The law needed them. And without them, everything Anthony and Abigail had risked would be meaningless.
Brigg had repeated the mantra so many times that it felt like iron etched into his skull. Keep the documents safe. Do not stop. Do not turn back.
But the canyon was quiet in a way that felt wrong. Too quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, leaving only the scrape of hooves on stone and the faint whistle of the morning air through scrub and boulders. Brigg’s gut tightened.
Then it came—a sharp shot, followed by another, and another. The sound carried through the canyon with an almost unnatural clarity. It ricocheted off stone and bounced across ridges.
He froze mid-thigh in the stirrups, ears straining.
Gunfire.
His heart slammed in his chest. He had known it was coming.
He had rehearsed it in his mind, but the first real sound of it set his teeth on edge.
It was chaotic and fragmented. The shots from below echoed through the rocks.
The smoke must still have been low to the ground because the smell of gunpowder hadn’t reached him yet, but the sound alone was enough.
Brigg gritted his teeth and straightened.
“Damn it,” he muttered, one hand clenching the reins tighter. He had ridden hard to survive. That was the plan. That was the truth. Every word Anthony had said, every warning, every instruction.
Yet . . .
Something deep in his gut told him he was about to fail. Not Brigg the deputy, not Brigg the lawman, but Brigg the man. Brigg the one who had seen too much and carried too many people he’d failed.
He had a bad feeling. A gut that screamed Hawk’s name, Hawk’s life, Abigail’s safety.
He tugged on the reins and slowed slightly, letting the horse’s hooves skitter over loose stones.
The valley spread beneath him like a painting, and somewhere below, Anthony Hawk was already in the fray.
Brigg’s jaw tightened. The fight wasn’t his, yet he felt it clawing at him like a fire under his ribs.
His eyes swept the ridges as the gunfire rattled again. It was louder this time. Closer. He cursed under his breath. He was supposed to keep going, but the voice in his gut whispered something he couldn’t ignore. Something was wrong.
Instinctively, he slowed further and rose slightly in the stirrups. There, along a faint rise in the trail, movement caught his eye. Three figures dropped into the scrub ahead. The glint of metal. The unmistakable shapes of rifles.
Vanburgh’s men.
Brigg’s stomach twisted. He should have kept going. He should have ignored them and focused on the deeds, the law, the survival.
But he had trained for moments like this, and the sudden rush of danger triggered a clarity he had never experienced on a quiet day in the office. He dropped his voice into a low hiss.
“Figures,” he said.
The three men emerged fully, rifles leveled. One stepped forward, lips curling into a grin.
“Well, well, Brigg,” he chuckled. “Thought you could slip by without us noticing?”
Brigg’s fingers flexed on the satchel strap, feeling the weight of the deeds. His other hand went to the Colt on his hip. The revolver’s familiar heft grounded him. The horse shifted beneath him, sensing his tension.
“Easy for you to say, Vanburgh’s boys,” Brigg muttered under his breath. He had no time for negotiations.
Every instinct screamed fight.
The first man fired, a jagged crack that tore through the canyon air. Brigg ducked low, leaning into the horse and letting the bullet pass harmlessly over his shoulder.
The horse snorted and stumbled slightly, but Brigg gripped the reins, letting the animal pivot in a tight half-circle. He used the terrain as cover.
He drew the Colt in one smooth motion with his thumb over the hammer. The first man advanced, stepping over a low rock, thinking he had Brigg pinned.
Brigg’s world slowed, and every motion became deliberate. His thumb squeezed the hammer, firing twice in quick succession. The first man’s rifle clattered to the ground as he dropped, hands clenching the dirt in surprise and pain.
“Agh!” he screamed in pain.
The second man’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected Brigg to shoot so fast. Brigg ducked behind a boulder as the man fired again, bullets kicking dust over his horse’s hooves.
The deputy gritted his teeth and fired twice more. The second man toppled sideways, sprawling into the scrub. A muffled curse left his lips.
The third man hesitated. Brigg’s eyes caught the subtle twitch of the man’s finger on the trigger. He shifted, aiming for the shot, and instinctively rolled his wrist, letting the horse move into a slight dip in the trail.
The bullet tore past where his chest had been moments before.
Brigg rose slightly, his thumb compressing the hammer. He fired once, then again.
The man’s chest jerked, and he fell back, rifle clattering to the ground.
For a moment, the world was silent again. Dust swirled, curling around Brigg’s boots and the hooves of his horse. He exhaled, hearing the rasp of his own breathing.
Three men, dead. He counted them in his mind, checking for movement. No signs of life.
His hands shook, and adrenaline coursed through every vein. But his grip was steady. The satchel remained secure against his saddle.
The deeds were safe. He had survived.
But then, a low whistle carried across the ridge from below. The sound of chaos was already unfolding. Brigg froze. Shots rang out from the Eagle Rock ridge.
Hawk’s voice shouted orders. He couldn’t hear the exact words from such a distance.
The deputy’s horse shifted under him, sensing the tension. He leaned forward, resting his chest against the animal’s neck. His eyes scanned the slopes ahead.
The fight below was bigger than him, bigger than the three men he had just dealt with. And yet he couldn’t stop himself.
The bad feeling that had gnawed at him before had sharpened into something he could no longer ignore. He had to see. He had to be certain.
He glanced at the trail stretching northward, where the documents would keep him alive. Then he cast his eyes back toward the smoke and movement below. He cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of his oath battling against the raw instinct to intervene.
The documents were safe, but the ridge, the men, Hawk . . . he couldn’t just leave them. His boots dug into the stirrups. He gritted his teeth.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He spurred the horse slightly, letting it pivot and giving him a better angle on the ridge.
A rifle cracked from below, sending a spray of gravel past him. Brigg ducked instinctively, hearing the shout of one of Hawk’s men, then the shrill whistle of another rifle. The canyon had come alive with noise.
Gunfire echoed and ricocheted, the reports of weapons bouncing between rock faces.
Brigg’s heart raced, hammering against his ribs. The horse snorted, waiting for him to act. He knew he was risking everything. He could still die here . . . but he had to see.
He gritted his teeth and leaned into the slope. The three Vanburgh men’s ambush had been only a fraction of the danger that waited, but it had reminded him of one thing. Survival required vigilance, awareness, and the willingness to act when hesitation could cost everything.
And Brigg knew hesitation was a luxury he could no longer afford.
He made sure his Colt was in his holster before reaching for his Winchester instead.
Another pair of men could be lying in wait. Another mistake could be his last. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of gunpowder from Eagle Rock.
He tightened his grip on the reins, glanced down at the saddlebag once more, and then back toward the chaos below. His pulse screamed in his ears.
The ridge was alive with movement now. Anthony Hawk, Black Wolf, Red Hawk. He saw the flashes and heard the shouts. His chest tightened.
Brigg swallowed hard, muscles coiled. He had come this far. He had survived the ambush. And now . . . he was going to see it through.
The canyon was a living thing, breathing gunpowder and fear. Now, Deputy Thomas Brigg was riding straight into the teeth of it.
The first gunfire had erupted, and Brigg’s ride was far from over.