Chapter 37
Anthony ducked behind the splintered edge of a wagon, chest heaving as smoke poured over the ridge.
The air was thick with powder. It was the kind that burned one’s throat raw and turned tongue to ash.
Every crack of rifle fire shook the ground, and every scream of a horse echoed like thunder rolling through the canyon.
He spat dust and blood out of his mouth and leaned out, Colt Navy revolver raised.
That’s when he saw them.
Joel. Big-shouldered with his dark hair tied back and his jaw lined with days of grit. The Smith Max, the reckless beast.
Anthony fired.
Joel twisted aside, the bullet sparking against the iron rim of a wagon wheel. Max answered with a roar, both barrels booming.
The air split as buckshot slammed into the wagon, tearing wood into flying splinters. Anthony hit the dirt, rolling hard as shards sliced his arm. His Colt slipped from his grasp, skidding across the ground.
“Got him!” Max bellowed, smoke curling from the shotgun’s mouth.
Anthony scrambled behind a rock, teeth gritted. His Colt was out of reach, and Joel was advancing with steady steps, revolver poised.
“You’ve been a thorn in Vanburgh’s side for too damn long, Hawk,” Joel called, his voice even and controlled. “Time to pluck it out.”
Anthony slid his bow from his back and notched an arrow. He peeked and let one fly. The arrow shattered against a crate, scattering dust.
Max roared again, fumbling shells into his shotgun.
Anthony’s pulse hammered. He was pinned. Joel was closing the gap on the left, and Max was waiting on the right with that shotgun ready to tear him in half.
He reached for his quiver, but his fingers brushed empty air. Just three arrows left. Not enough.
Joel’s boots crunched closer. “Always knew you weren’t untouchable,” Joel said, his voice low now. “All it takes is patience.”
Anthony clenched his jaw, muscles screaming. He could hear Max’s laugh. It was a booming, ugly sound. He cocked the shotgun again.
“Say goodbye, mountain rat!” Max hollered, stepping wide with his barrels glinting.
Anthony tensed, ready to move.
A gunshot cracked from the ridge. Sharp. Clean.
Max jerked, the grin wiped off his face as his shotgun fired high, buckshot tearing harmlessly into the sky. His body lurched backward, blood blooming across his shoulder.
Anthony blinked, stunned for half a second.
There, striding down from the northern rocks with smoke still rising from his Winchester, was Deputy Thomas Brigg. His hat was tilted low, and his face was smeared with sweat and dust. But his eyes burned with a defiance Anthony hadn’t expected to see again.
“Brigg?” Anthony muttered under his breath.
He was supposed to be gone, riding north with the deeds, clear of this slaughter. Yet here he was, with his rifle at the ready and jaw set like stone.
Joel cursed, ducking behind cover as Brigg fired again. The shot clipped his revolver, knocking it from his hand. Joel snarled, retreating behind a tent flap. His advantage was broken.
Max groaned, fumbling for his shotgun with his uninjured arm. Anthony lunged, snatching his Colt from the dirt, and fired twice. The first round shattered Max’s knee; the second slammed into his chest. The big man toppled with a strangled cry, shotgun falling useless to the ground.
Anthony turned sharply with his revolver leveled, eyes still burning with disbelief as they landed on Brigg.
“You—” he started, his voice sharp with fury and gratitude all tangled together.
But Brigg just chambered another round, eyes never leaving Joel’s shadow.
“Later,” the deputy snapped. “We finish this first.”
Anthony’s grip tightened on his Colt. The fight wasn’t over. Joel was still out there, and Vanburgh’s men were still pouring lead across the ridge.
But for the first time since the battle began, Anthony felt the faintest flicker of something like relief.
He shifted, reloading his Colt with quick movements as Brigg’s boots crunched into place beside him. The deputy kept his Winchester trained on the shadows near the tent where Joel had vanished. Smoke drifted in choking waves across the ridge, carrying the stink of gunpowder and burning canvas.
“Joel won’t run,” Anthony muttered, eyes locked on the tent. “He’s too proud. He’ll circle, try to cut us off.”
Brigg nodded once, sweat rolling down his cheek. “Then we smoke him out.”
Anthony motioned to the left flank. Brigg crouched low with his rifle raised and moved that way as Anthony darted right. Their steps were quiet despite the battle raging around them. It was years of practice and instinct guiding their boots over stone and dirt.
The tent flapped once.
Anthony froze, breath tight in his chest.
Then Joel’s revolver cracked, the bullet tearing into the ground inches from Anthony’s hand. Anthony dove behind a crate, firing back blindly. Wood splintered, canvas ripped, but Joel’s laugh carried above the noise. It was harsh and cutting.
“You’ll have to do better, Hawk!” Joel shouted. “I’m not like the others. I don’t bleed easy!”
Brigg’s Winchester roared. The bullet punched through the tent wall, forcing Joel to stumble out into the open. Dust clung to his clothes, his revolver already snapping up for another shot.
Anthony fired first. Joel twisted, the bullet grazing his arm but not stopping him. He snarled and fired back. Anthony dropped low, the round grazing his hat and sending it spinning.
Deputy Brigg steadied his rifle, but Joel rolled behind a wagon, firing at both of them in quick succession. The shots forced them into cover again.
“He’s quick,” Brigg muttered.
“He’s desperate,” Anthony corrected. He pointed to the wagon. “We box him in. Left side, you push. I’ll draw his fire.”
Brigg didn’t argue. He adjusted his grip on the Winchester and moved to the left quickly.
Anthony inhaled once, then rose from behind his cover. His Colt bucked with each shot. Joel’s revolver barked back, the two men trading fire across a haze of smoke. Sparks flew as bullets bit into metal. Dirt sprayed into the air.
Joel shifted his aim to Anthony’s chest.
That was when Brigg fired.
The shot hit Joel square in the side, spinning him off balance. His revolver clattered to the dirt, but he staggered upright, blood seeping through his shirt.
Anthony moved in, closing the distance. Joel looked up, hatred burning in his eyes even as his legs trembled.
“You think killing me changes anything?” Joel rasped. “Vanburgh will grind you into dust.”
Anthony didn’t hesitate. He leveled the Colt at Joel’s chest and fired once.
Joel staggered back a step with eyes wide, then crumpled to the ground. His breath rattled once, then stopped.
Silence pressed in for a moment, broken only by the gunfire still raging farther down the ridge. Anthony exhaled hard, lowering his revolver. Brigg stood a few feet away, his eyes on Joel’s body.
“That’s done,” Anthony said, voice flat.
Brigg’s chest rose and fell heavily. He looked at Anthony, then jerked his chin toward the western flank.
“I saw her,” Brigg said.
Anthony frowned. “Saw who?”
“Abigail,” Brigg replied, his tone clipped. “Down in the thick of it. Patching up Red Hawk, of all things. Why is she here, Hawk? She was supposed to stay back with the horses.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened. He holstered his Colt, shaking his head. “She didn’t listen.”
“You should’ve made her,” Brigg replied.
Anthony turned sharply, anger flashing across his face. “Like you listened? You were supposed to be halfway to Denver by now with the deed. Instead, you’re standing here, covered in blood, same as the rest of us.”
Brigg opened his mouth, then shut it again. The tension between them hung sharp, cutting through the din of battle.
Anthony glanced toward the smoke where Abigail had been last. His gut twisted, but there was no time for arguments, no time for anger. Not here, not now.
“She’s here,” he said, his voice low. “Same as you. Same as me. We’ll settle it when Vanburgh’s in the ground.”
Brigg said nothing, only chambered another round into his Winchester. The two men exchanged a brief, grim nod before turning back toward the fight.
The battle wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.