Chapter 38
Anthony’s boots ground against gravel as he and Brigg pressed through the chaos.
Smoke clawed at their lungs, raw. The camp was a blur of muzzle flashes and shapes darting through canvas shadows.
Somewhere in the maelstrom, Vanburgh moved like a snake in tall grass, and every second wasted was a second closer to him striking first.
Anthony reloaded, the metal clicks of the Colt loud against the storm of battle. “He’ll head for the powder crates,” he said, eyes narrowed. “If he lights them—”
“We’re ash,” Brigg finished grimly, chambering another round in his Winchester. “Whole damn ridge goes sky-high.”
They slipped between a burning tent and a fallen wagon.
A guard lunged at Brigg, revolver half-raised.
The deputy’s shot split the man’s chest before Anthony could even lift his gun.
Brigg didn’t stop moving. He didn’t even blink.
He just kept low and sharp, like a man who’d decided he had nothing left to lose.
“Keep tight,” Anthony warned, checking corners. “Vanburgh’s clever. He’ll let his men bleed so he can set the match.”
Brigg grunted, sweat dripping off his brow. “Then we cut the bastard off before he gets close.”
They followed the smoke deeper toward the camp’s heart.
The powder wagons weren’t far. Anthony could feel it, sensing the shift in the fight. He knew Vanburgh too well. He knew the man wouldn’t risk being pinned in the middle. He’d either be running for the fuses now or already crouched with flint in hand.
Anthony’s gut twisted. He picked up the pace with Brigg on his flank.
Then a voice crawled out of the haze. “Well now, look what the wolves dragged in.”
Anthony froze, his Colt Navy revolver snapping toward the sound. Brigg pivoted with him, rifle raised.
From the smoke staggered a figure that should’ve been dead twice over.
Lyle Tate.
His coat was torn and blackened, his left arm bound in a filthy rag. One eye was swollen shut, and blood streaked his jaw like war paint. He looked like a man spat out by hell itself, but his grin was feral, teeth red at the edges.
A Sharps rifle hung crooked in his hand, barrel blackened but still deadly.
Anthony’s breath tightened in his chest. “Tate.”
Brigg muttered a curse under his breath.
“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” Tate drawled, his voice raw from smoke but carrying a mocking lilt. “The mountain rat and the lawman . . . finally learned how to share a foxhole.”
Anthony didn’t lower his Colt. His finger stayed steady on the trigger. “Where’s Vanburgh?”
Tate’s grin widened, though his lip split and bled with the stretch.
“Vanburgh?” he asked. “He’s smarter than you give him credit for. While you’re playing house with me, he’s got bigger fires to light.”
Anthony’s pulse hammered. He tried to shift left, but Tate mirrored the move, rifle barrel swinging lazily toward him.
“Move, Hawk,” Brigg growled. “He’s stalling.”
“Of course I’m stalling,” Tate laughed, though it turned into a cough. “That’s what you don’t get. This ain’t about winning a fight. It’s about making you bleed slow enough for the real man to finish the job.”
“Why crawl back to help him, Tate?” Anthony asked. “You look half-dead already.”
“’Cause Vanburgh ain’t just pay,” he replied. “He’s order. He’s a man who knows what to do with savages and strays like you. You’re a mistake he means to erase.”
“You talk too damn much,” Brigg said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
But Tate’s eyes flicked toward him, and his grin sharpened.
“And you, Deputy,” Tate said. “You rode with him, didn’t you?
Think that makes you clean? Think it makes you one of the good ones?
Let me tell you what it makes you . . . a dog running with wolves.
Ain’t no badge shiny enough to change that. ”
Anthony’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t let Tate’s words burrow too deep. He kept his voice even. “Where’s Vanburgh?”
“Don’t you worry your half-breed head about it,” Tate sneered suddenly, his tone cutting.
“By the time you find him, your precious Shoshone friends will be gutted. You think they care about you? You think they ain’t laughing behind your back every time you call yourself their brother?
They’ll leave you in the dirt same as I would. ”
Anthony’s grip on his Colt tightened, but he kept his face hard as stone. He wouldn’t let Tate see the jab land. Not here, not now.
“Shut your mouth,” Brigg snapped, voice sharp with fury.
Tate’s grin only widened. “Ah, struck a nerve, did I? The redskins mean nothing. They’re tools. Same as you, Deputy. Same as her—” He jerked his chin toward the ridge where Abigail had vanished earlier.
“What was it . . . Abigail?” he asked. “That little doll you keep dragging into the fire? You think Vanburgh won’t string her up just to make you howl?”
Anthony moved first. His Colt barked, the bullet whistling past Tate’s head and kicking dust behind him.
“Enough,” Anthony growled. “You want me? Then quit talking and pull the trigger.”
Tate’s eye gleamed with cruel amusement. “Gladly.” He swung the Sharps rifle up, and the canyon seemed to tighten around them.
Anthony’s heart hammered. He could almost feel Vanburgh slipping farther into the smoke with every passing second. Tate wasn’t just an obstacle. He was the wedge that might tear their whole chance apart.
Brigg’s voice cut low beside him, steady and grim. “We take him fast. Then we find Vanburgh.”
Anthony nodded once, never taking his eyes off Tate. “Fast,” he agreed.
Tate’s laugh rasped through the powder haze. “Come on then, boys. Let’s see who bleeds first.”
The Sharps rifle kicked, flame spitting from the muzzle. The bullet tore past Anthony’s ear and split the wagon plank behind him. Anthony dropped, his Colt Navy revolver barking twice in answer.
One round clipped Tate’s shoulder, spinning him a step sideways.
Brigg surged forward, Winchester booming. The shot slammed into Tate’s thigh, dropping him to one knee, but the outlaw still grinned through his blood.
“You’ll have to do better!” Tate roared, shoving himself upright. He swung the rifle one-handed and fired again.
Deputy Brigg cried out, stumbling back as the round carved a line across his ribs.
Blood darkened his shirt as quickly as spilled ink. He hit the dirt hard, rifle clattering from his grip.
“Brigg!” Anthony shouted, firing again to cover him. His last shot went wide, the Colt clicking empty.
Lyle Tate staggered but kept moving with his teeth red and his eyes wild. He threw the Sharps aside and yanked a heavy knife from his belt. Its blade was long, curved, and glinting cruelly in the firelight.
Anthony’s bow was still slung at his back, but the quiver was nearly dry.
His Colt was empty. He ripped the bow forward anyway, nocking one of his last arrows.
He loosed it at close range, but Tate swatted it aside with the knife, sparks flying off the steel.
The outlaw lunged.
Anthony dropped the bow as the knife slashed down, barely twisting clear. The edge bit across his sleeve, opening cloth and skin. Pain flared hot, but he shoved into Tate’s chest, forcing him back against a broken barrel.
“Always knew you weren’t untouchable!” Tate spat, slashing again.
Anthony caught his wrist, the knife inches from his face. The two men strained, boots grinding in the dirt. Tate’s strength was fueled by madness. His breath reeked of blood and smoke.
Behind them, Brigg groaned, trying to push himself up. “Hawk—”
“Stay down!” Anthony barked, teeth gritted.
Tate twisted, wrenching his wrist free. The knife scored across Anthony’s ribs, shallow but hot. He staggered, revolver still at his hip. However, before he could draw, Tate’s boot slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back.
The knife flashed above.
Anthony rolled, Colt finally in his hand. He fired point-blank. The hammer snapped on an empty chamber.
Click.
Tate laughed. “Empty, Hawk!”
The blade plunged down. Anthony caught his wrist again, straining until his muscles burned. His Colt slipped from his grip, clattering uselessly to the dirt.
For a moment, the world shrank to the glint of steel and the heat of Tate’s spit on his face.
Anthony shoved with every ounce left in him. The knife wavered. His free hand scrabbled against the ground until his fingers closed around something cold.
His own knife was attached to his gun belt.
Anthony twisted, ripping the blade from the gun belt. In the same motion, he drove it up, burying it under the outlaw’s ribs.
Tate’s eyes went wide. His breath hitched sharply, bloody froth spilling from his lips.
Anthony snarled, shoving the blade deeper until he felt it grind against bone. “You should’ve stayed dead, Tate,” he said.
Tate gurgled, the fight draining out of him. His body sagged heavily against Anthony before sliding to the dirt. The grin was gone, replaced by a dull, glassy stare.
Silence rushed in, broken only by Brigg’s labored breathing and the chaos of battle echoing farther off.
Anthony ripped the knife free and shoved Tate’s body aside. He staggered upright, chest heaving and blood slick across his shirt. His revolver lay in the dust, his bow cracked on the ground. For the first time in the fight, his hands shook.
Deputy Brigg was still on the ground, pressing a bloody hand to his side. Anthony dropped to his knees beside him.
“Hold on,” Anthony muttered, scanning the wound. The bullet had carved across the ribs but hadn’t gone through. Deep, messy, but not mortal if they kept pressure.
Brigg coughed, smearing more blood across his chin. “Guess . . . I’m outta this one,” he said.
Anthony clenched his jaw. “Not if I can help it.”
Brigg grabbed his sleeve, eyes fierce despite the pain. “Forget me,” he said. “Vanburgh’s out there. He’ll light the damn powder if you don’t stop him.”
Anthony looked past him and into the haze where Vanburgh had slipped away during Tate’s distraction. The smoke was thicker now, glowing orange where fire licked at the tents.
Anthony’s chest tightened. They were running out of time. He squeezed Brigg’s shoulder once, hard. “Stay alive,” Anthony said. “That’s an order.”
Brigg smirked weakly through the blood. “Didn’t know you gave orders.”
Anthony stood, Tate’s knife still in his hand. His revolver was empty, his bow cracked, but he didn’t care. He had enough left to finish this.
“Wait—”
Anthony turned. Brigg was propped against the nearest boulder, his face pale but his eyes still sharp. He shoved the Winchester across the dirt toward him, blood smeared on the stock.
“You’re gonna need this more than me,” Brigg rasped.
Anthony hesitated, then bent to scoop it up. The rifle’s weight was solid and reassuring. He checked the chamber. There was half a magazine left. Enough.
Brigg coughed, a bitter laugh shaking out of him. “Don’t miss,” he said.
Anthony gave a short nod. “I won’t.”
Their eyes met for a second. No more words needed.
Then Anthony turned back toward the smoke, the Winchester firm in his grip, and pushed on into the fire where Vanburgh waited.