Chapter 39
Anthony tried to breathe steadily as he climbed up the hill. Every step was a battle against the recoil of panic and the searing burn of exertion.
He could see the occasional flash from the ridge. Black Wolf and Red Hawk were holding the western flank, and Abigail was patching wounds.
But up here, it was his fight alone.
He ducked behind a jagged boulder as a bullet whined past his ear, kicking up a spray of dirt.
His breath came fast, and every muscle screamed to slow down and to pause.
But the urgency drove him onward. He could feel the powder stores somewhere ahead, the faint copper tang in the air a warning that every second mattered.
Vanburgh was clever. Too clever. Anthony knew the rail baron wouldn’t simply wait to be cornered. No, he would use the chaos to his advantage, and the advantage here was the fuse.
One misstep, one hesitation, and the entire ridge could become a tomb.
Anthony slid behind another boulder, wiping sweat and grime from his eyes. Only the Winchester Brigg had thrust into his hands kept him from feeling entirely helpless.
He shifted, scanning every ridge and every tent. Somewhere ahead, a shack sat alone. It was a black silhouette against the sun-bleached rocks. Anthony’s gut clenched.
That must have been it. The source of Vanburgh’s nerve, the place he could strike a fuse and level the ridge in one cruel instant.
Anthony ran.
The hill was steep, and sweat stung his eyes as he ran. Bullets whined around him, spattering rock and dirt, but none connected. His pulse hammered in his ears as he dove behind a toppled crate.
The smell of gunpowder was thick here, mingled with the acrid tang of burning canvas from the tents below.
He spotted movement near the shack and froze.
Vanburgh. Anthony could see the rail baron’s gaunt face, a mask of fury and madness. His finger hovered over something small and gleaming. A wire. A crude switch. A fuse. Anthony’s stomach dropped.
The man’s eyes darted toward the ridge, toward the smoke where Anthony knew the others were still fighting. That was when he barked, voice sharp and almost unhinged.
“You think you’ve won, Hawk?” Vanburgh spat, stepping closer to the contraption. “One flick, one little push, and you’re all ash. Every last one of you. All the men, the women . . . the fools who thought they could stop me.”
Anthony’s hand tightened around the Winchester, muscles coiling. His mind raced.
The fuse ran along the floor, disappearing into a crude arrangement of powder kegs. One spark, one careless move, and the entire ridge would erupt. The thought made him stagger, yet he forced himself to steady. He couldn’t afford fear. Not when he had made it this far.
“You’ve gone insane,” Anthony said, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. “This isn’t winning. It’s death. You’ll kill everything around you, including yourself. Step away.”
Vanburgh laughed, a short sound that grated against the nerves like metal scraping stone.
“Insane?” he hissed, eyes wide, pupils blown by rage.
“I am the only one who sees clearly! You, all of you . . . crawling around like rats, trying to steal my empire, my power! One push, Hawk, one push, and it all ends. Forever. Clean. Perfect.”
Anthony shifted slightly, pressing his back against the shack’s corner with his Winchester leveled. He could see the tension in Vanburgh’s shoulders, the way his hand trembled ever so slightly over the switch.
“I don’t think you understand,” Anthony said slowly, trying to sound calm. Trying to inject reason into the madness. “You’re not winning. You’re losing. And you’re going to die here if you touch that switch. I won’t let it happen.”
Vanburgh’s lips curled, the faintest sneer breaking through. “And who’s going to stop me?” he spat. “You? You’re one man, Hawk! One fool standing where hundreds should be! You think I care about your friends down there? Your Shoshone warriors? Your little deputies? They’re dust waiting to happen!”
Anthony’s finger brushed the trigger. He thought of Brigg, injured but alive somewhere behind him. He thought of Abigail, still down in the valley patching wounds, still alive because of their efforts. He thought of Red Hawk and Black Wolf, holding their positions under impossible fire.
He could not . . . He would not let Vanburgh end it all here.
“I’m the one standing here,” Anthony said, his voice hard. “And I will stop you. Right now.”
Vanburgh laughed, his eyes darting to the switch, then back to Anthony. “You’ll have to kill me, Hawk,” he said. “Kill me, or we all burn.”
Anthony exhaled. His boots shifted against the ground. The Winchester’s weight in his hands grounded him. He had the advantage only if he could keep his mind clear.
One wrong shot, one hasty move, and the ridge would be gone.
“You’re not thinking,” Anthony said, stepping closer, his eyes locked on Vanburgh’s. “You’re scared, cornered, and desperate. This isn’t power. This is madness. Step away. Now.”
Vanburgh’s lips twitched in amusement. “Madness? Maybe,” he admitted. “But at least I control it. At least I control the ending. And I will, Hawk. I will see it done, and you won’t stop me!”
Anthony’s hand didn’t waver. He shifted again, moving cautiously.
The Winchester raised, trained steadily on Vanburgh’s chest. His pulse roared, blood hammering in his ears, but his mind remained sharp. He needed a plan, a clear strike, and he needed it now.
“You’re not thinking about the powder,” Anthony said, his voice low, closer now. “One spark, one slip . . . and you die too. Maybe first. Do you want to die like that? Do you?”
Vanburgh’s eyes flicked to the powder kegs, then back to Anthony. Rage and fear mixed in the rail baron’s face, twisting it into a grotesque mask.
“Let me see you try, Hawk!” he shouted, hand jerking toward the switch.
Anthony lunged, the Winchester snapping upward and kicking fire. Vanburgh twisted, and the switch was missed by mere inches. Sparks hissed from the mechanism as Anthony’s shot tore past, shattering a board above Vanburgh’s head.
Vanburgh recoiled with wide eyes. Anthony pushed forward, closing the distance. Every instinct screamed to be careful. But there was no room for hesitation.
“You’re done, Vanburgh!” Anthony barked, stepping closer. “One more move and it’s over. You don’t get to win this. Not today. Not ever!”
The rail baron’s breathing was ragged, eyes darting wildly. Sweat and grime streaked his face, and for the first time, Anthony thought he saw doubt. It flickered just beneath the surface of his madness.
Anthony pressed the advantage, sliding around the shack with the Winchester trained on Vanburgh. The fuse sizzled faintly, a reminder that the clock was ticking. Every second was a threat. Every second mattered.
“You’re finished, Vanburgh,” Anthony said, his voice like steel. “Step away now. I’m not gonna give you any more chances.”
Vanburgh hesitated, a flicker of panic crossing his features. Anthony could see it. He could see the man’s mind racing. The madness teetered on the edge of reason.
Anthony’s heart pounded in his chest as he forced Vanburgh’s eyes away from the fuse. There was no room for error. He couldn’t let the rail baron’s madness dictate the end of this fight.
“Look over here!” Anthony shouted, yanking the Winchester upward and stepping left, hammering his advantage. Vanburgh’s eyes flicked toward him, hand twitching toward the switch again.
Anthony’s voice sharpened as he spoke. “You think this makes you powerful?” he asked.
“You think this gives you control? You killed my family, Vanburgh. Shot them down like dogs.” His fingers flexed on the trigger, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury.
“Do you know what that feels like? To see them like that and feel completely powerless?”
Vanburgh narrowed his eyes. There was madness behind them.
“There’s no excuse,” Anthony continued. “No reason. You wanted power. You wanted gold. And for it, you murdered them. My family. My blood.” He stepped closer, moving faster than Vanburgh could follow with the Winchester trained on the man who had taken everything from him. “Do you hear me? You took everything.”
Vanburgh’s hand twitched toward the fuse again, but Anthony’s boot kicked a crate, forcing him back. Sparks hissed as the metal switch broke free in a sharp, echoing snap. The fuse dangled harmlessly. Anthony didn’t give him a chance to recover.
“You won’t touch anyone else!” Anthony raised his voice over the gunfire in the background. “I won’t let you!”
Vanburgh drew his revolver with shaking hands, eyes blazing with fear and fury at the same time.
Anthony’s reflexes fired on instinct. “You should’ve died the moment you took their lives,” he said, his voice low and merciless. The Winchester rose and cracked. The bullet slammed into Vanburgh’s chest with unerring precision.
The rail baron stumbled backward, mouth opening in a strangled scream. He crashed to the floorboards of the shack, sliding into the dust. Lifeless.
Anthony let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. The silence inside the shack was a stark contrast to the distant chaos still raging on the ridge. Smoke filtered through the cracks in the walls. Dust and ash clung to his hair and clothes.
The ridge was saved. For now, the threat had ended. Anthony dropped to one knee, glancing at the broken switch still clutched in his hand, then toward the smoke-filled valley.
Somewhere below, the shouts and gunfire continued, but the largest threat was gone. Anthony’s hands shook slightly, but his mind was clear.
He swung the Winchester over his shoulder and leaned against the shack wall, his eyes scanning the horizon. The ridge, the horses, the men and women fighting below . . . they would live because he had acted.
The victory was quiet, but it was real. In that moment, Anthony allowed himself a breath. The mountain was still alive, but the nightmare of Vanburgh’s greed and cruelty was over.
Yet even as he exhaled, Anthony knew the fight wasn’t fully done. The ridge still needed defending, and the wounded still needed tending. For now, he had saved it from complete annihilation.
Anthony pushed himself off the shack wall, every muscle heavy with the weight of what he had just done. Vanburgh’s lifeless body lay crumpled in the dust, but there was no time to linger.
There was even less time to think.
The gunfire from the ridge rolled down like thunder, a brutal reminder that the fight below was far from finished.
He gripped the Winchester tightly, checked the chamber, and started down the hill at a run. Dust kicked up beneath his boots. Smoke curled upward, stinging his eyes. Every step pulled him back into the heart of the battle.
As he neared the slope, he saw Red Hawk stumble against a boulder, clutching his side. Blood streaked his shirt. Black Wolf was crouched nearby, firing careful shots at two of Vanburgh’s men who were still trying to push them back.
Abigail knelt in the dirt with her revolver drawn in one hand, the other steadying Red Hawk as best she could.
Anthony raised the Winchester and fired. One of Vanburgh’s men pitched backward, tumbling into the dust. He racked the lever and fired again.
Another shot struck home, and the second man fell silent.
The sudden quiet was jarring.
Anthony slid down the last few feet of rock, landing beside them. “It’s over,” he said, his voice low but certain.
His gaze flicked to Abigail, whose face was pale and streaked with grit. She nodded, still steadying Red Hawk.
Black Wolf straightened, his bow still clutched in his hand. “Not over,” he muttered, scanning the battlefield.
A few scattered cries echoed in the distance, but no more shots came. Slowly, the silence spread, seeping into the rocks and the smoke until only the wind carried sound.
Abigail exhaled shakily, finally holstering her revolver. “It’s done,” she whispered. “It has to be.”
Anthony gave a short nod. He crouched beside Red Hawk, checking the already bandaged wound. The Shoshone warrior met his eyes, pain etched deep into his face.
“I’ll live,” Red Hawk said through clenched teeth.
Anthony pressed a steadying hand to his shoulder. “You fought well. All of you did.”
He looked from Red Hawk to Black Wolf, then to Abigail. Some of the other Shoshone members began to emerge from behind cover. They had stood their ground against impossible odds.
Anthony stood slowly, the Winchester heavy in his grip. His voice carried.
“Brigg’s hurt,” he said. “He’s closer to the shack on the hill. I left him there when I went after Vanburgh.”
Abigail’s head snapped up, worry flashing in her eyes. “Brigg?”
“He turned back to fight when he should’ve ridden on,” Anthony replied. “Took a wound, but he’s alive. We need to get him down before he loses more blood.”
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with both relief and exhaustion. The ridge was theirs. Vanburgh was dead. His men were finished. But the cost was still being counted.
Anthony adjusted his grip on the Winchester, scanning the smoke-choked valley one last time.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s bring Brigg back.”