Chapter 36
Abigail sat crouched on the northern ridge, one hand tight on the reins of the spare horses and the other brushing against the worn grip of her Colt Paterson revolver. The morning sun was higher now, and the nervous stamping of hooves behind her made her chest tighten.
The horses knew what was coming. She did too.
Tilly tossed her head and snorted, ears twitching toward the basin. Abigail reached up and patted her neck, fingers tracing the familiar line of muscle under the hide.
“Easy, girl,” she whispered. “You’ll hold steady, won’t you?”
The mare whinnied, ready to bolt at the next crack of thunder from below.
And then it came.
The first gunshots broke like lightning. Sharp, echoing cracks bounced against the canyon walls, each one louder than the last. The sound rippled through the ground beneath her boots.
The other horses shifted and stamped. Abigail tugged hard on the reins, pulling them tight and whispering harsh words she hoped would settle them. Her jaw clenched.
Her job was clear. Anthony’s words were still ringing in her head. If it goes wrong, take the deed from Brigg. Ride hard. Don’t stop until Denver.
But she couldn’t just sit here. Not when the air itself was splitting with violence. Not when Anthony, Black Wolf, Red Hawk, and the others were down there fighting for their lives.
A rifle cracked so close she could feel it in her teeth. She looked out over the ridge. Through the haze of gunpowder and smoke, she saw Anthony diving for cover with his Colt in hand.
Arrows streaked from the southern slope where the Shoshone warriors had already scattered Vanburgh’s riders. The ground below was alive with screams, horses bucking, and men shouting orders over the chaos.
Her fingers tightened on the revolver.
She told herself she had to stay. That her job was too important to risk. She was the failsafe, the last line of survival. But her gut twisted. She couldn’t breathe for watching it unfold below her and not doing anything about it.
Abigail’s hand brushed against the medical satchel hanging from Tilly’s saddlebag.
She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Damn it all,” she muttered.
With a deliberate movement, she pulled the Colt Paterson free from its holster. The revolver was heavy and awkward in its five-chamber frame, but it had never failed her yet. She checked the cylinder, making sure each round was ready. Her thumb brushed the hammer.
Then she glanced back at Tilly. The mare was watching her, nostrils flared. Abigail reached up and stroked her mane.
“You wait for me,” she said softly. “Don’t you dare run off, you hear? You’re my way out of here.”
She gave the reins a final tug, tying them to a low, sturdy branch jutting from the rock face. The other horses shifted nervously, but Tilly stood firm. Loyal, stubborn, steady Tilly.
Abigail gave her one last pat and snatched the medical bag before turning away.
The revolver was cold in her hand as she slid down the ridge. The rocks tore at her pants, and dust clung to her palms, but she moved fast. She ducked behind a line of boulders.
The gunfire was louder here. Smoke hung thick in the basin, curling around the tents and wagons like some hungry spirit. Every breath burned her throat with powder. She coughed once but forced herself to keep moving.
From her position, she caught sight of Anthony. His dark hair was wild, his revolver bucking fire as he leaned out from behind a rock. His bow was slung across his back, ready for the next shot. Every movement was controlled.
She also saw Vanburgh. The man stood near the central tent with his face twisted in fury as he fired wildly toward the rocks. His voice carried even above the chaos. Abigail couldn’t make out all of it, but the venom in his words was enough.
Anthony shouted back, something sharp and cutting. Abigail’s stomach twisted. Their words were lost in the thunder of gunfire, but she could see the effect. Vanburgh’s face burned red, his every shot more desperate.
Abigail’s knuckles whitened around the revolver. She wanted to end him right there. To put a bullet through the arrogance that dripped from him. But he was too far, and her gun too imprecise.
Instead, she scanned for an opening.
Near the corral, two of Vanburgh’s men were reloading behind a wagon, preparing to fire on Black Wolf’s warriors as they advanced along the slope. Abigail dropped to one knee, steadied her breath, and raised the Colt.
The Paterson roared.
The first man cried out, clutching his side and collapsing against the wagon wheel. The second turned, and Abigail fired again. The shot went wide, but it made him duck, buying Black Wolf’s men the chance to surge forward.
One of the warriors loosed an arrow that struck the man square in the chest. He toppled backward into the dirt.
Abigail ducked behind her rock, heart hammering. The Colt felt heavier now, her hand tingling from the recoil. But she wasn’t frozen anymore. She was in it.
Another shout drew her attention. Red Hawk was pinned near the western flank, bullets splintering the wood around him. Abigail rose, fired twice, forcing one of the shooters to pull back. Red Hawk seized the moment, slipping out of his trap and cutting the man down with his own shot.
“Good!” Red Hawk shouted, his voice carrying across the chaos. “Keep them down!”
Abigail exhaled hard, tucking herself back behind cover. Smoke burned her eyes. Sweat slicked her brow.
The horses were still on the ridge. The deed was still safe. But Abigail’s place wasn’t up there anymore. It was here, in the fight, with the others.
She rose again, her revolver steady in her hand, eyes sharp on the next target.
Then she saw him—Red Hawk staggering back against a splintered wagon.
His rifle slipped from his grasp, clattering to the dirt.
His hand pressed to his side, crimson already seeping through his buckskin shirt.
He was still upright, still snarling like a wolf cornered, but Abigail saw the way his knees buckled. He wouldn’t last.
Her chest tightened. She didn’t think. She moved.
Darting from her cover, she slid across the dirt as bullets whistled past her ears. Men shouted and cursed. The whole basin was fire and smoke, but she kept low with her Colt clenched in her fist.
Her heart was pounding like a war drum.
“Red Hawk!” she shouted, ducking behind the shattered wagon where he’d taken cover.
His dark eyes met hers, fierce despite the pain. “Go back!” he barked, voice strained.
“Not a chance,” she shot back. She holstered the Colt, already reaching for her satchel. Her fingers were shaking, but her training took over. She tore at the strap, pulling free a small roll of cloth and a flask of whiskey.
Red Hawk gritted his teeth, sliding down until he sat propped against the wagon’s ruined wheel.
“I fight,” he growled, trying to push himself up again.
“You’ll bleed out in two minutes if you don’t let me do this,” Abigail snapped, shoving him back down with surprising force. “So shut up and let me work.”
He blinked at her, startled. Then he gave a short nod, jaw clamped tight.
Abigail tore the shirt open at his side. The sight made her stomach lurch. It was raw and red. There was a line of torn flesh where the bullet had carved him. Not a clean through-and-through. Lodged.
She swallowed hard, pressing the cloth to the wound. Blood seeped fast, warm against her fingers.
Red Hawk hissed between his teeth but didn’t cry out. He watched her with hawk-like eyes, unblinking, testing her resolve even now.
“Hold still,” she muttered, pouring whiskey over the wound. The liquid hissed and foamed against torn flesh, and Red Hawk grunted deep in his chest. His hand clenched the wagon wheel so hard his knuckles went white.
“You fight like a warrior,” he said through clenched teeth. “Even now.”
“I’m not here to fight,” Abigail replied, wrapping the cloth tight around his side, pulling it into a makeshift bandage. “I’m here to keep you alive.”
The air cracked with gunfire. Bullets tore into the wagon above their heads, splinters raining down on them. Abigail ducked instinctively, shielding Red Hawk’s torso with her own body.
Anthony’s voice rang out somewhere nearby. “Keep pressure on the west flank!”
Abigail’s heart hammered. She could almost see him, moving fast between rocks and shadows with his Colt and bow both flashing death. He was everywhere at once, shouting orders, firing, pushing the men forward.
Then, suddenly, his eyes landed on her.
Even across the chaos, she felt it. His gaze burned through the smoke. For an instant, his expression froze, confusion and fury warring on his face. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She knew it. He knew it.
But there was no time for him to come storming over and drag her back. A bullet screamed past his head, and he had to roll, fire, and vanish behind another boulder. His focus snapped back to survival.
Abigail exhaled, turning back to Red Hawk. The bleeding had slowed, but his face was pale, sweat slicking his brow. She pressed the bandage tighter, tying it off with trembling fingers.
“There,” she whispered. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold.”
Red Hawk’s lips curved into the barest ghost of a smile. “Strong hands,” he said. “A healer.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, shoving her revolver back into her grip. “You’re still breathing. That’s all that matters right now.”
Red Hawk shifted, testing the bandage. He winced but managed to grab his rifle with his free hand.
“I fight,” he said again, voice hoarse but determined.
“Fine,” Abigail replied, cocking her revolver. “But you do it from behind cover this time. You owe me that much.”
The wagon shuddered as another bullet slammed into it. Abigail pressed her back against the wood, breathing hard. She felt the weight of Anthony’s brief glare still lingering in her chest, but she shoved it down. There would be time for lectures later . . . if they lived through this.
For now, she was in the fight. And she wasn’t leaving.