Chapter 40
Anthony moved quickly, forcing his legs to carry him back uphill even though every muscle ached.
The battle was done, but the ridge still smelled of blood and smoke. Shouts carried faintly from the western flank. Men were counting heads, calling for the wounded, and gathering the living from the fallen.
“Red Hawk,” Anthony called over his shoulder, steadying Abigail as she stumbled against loose stone. “Black Wolf. Get a headcount. Find out who we still have standing.”
Both Shoshone warriors nodded grimly, their eyes already scanning the valley. They knew what had to be done.
Anthony adjusted his grip on the Winchester he had gotten from Brigg and then glanced back at Abigail. She was pale, but her jaw was set firm. The Colt Paterson revolver still hung at her side.
“You’re with me, ma’am,” he told her. “Brigg’s up there. Hurt bad. I don’t know how long he’s got.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Then we’d better not waste a second.”
Together, they climbed the last stretch toward the shack. The hill was quieter now, but each gust of wind carried the metallic tang of blood. Anthony’s boots scraped against the rocks. His breathing was heavy, and every sense was still sharp from battle.
Abigail kept pace, clutching her medical bag tight against her chest.
When they rounded the final ridge, Anthony’s gut clenched.
Deputy Thomas Brigg was still there. He was slumped against a boulder, his shirt soaked dark with blood. His face was pale, and his lips were drawn tight. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of their approach.
“About time,” Brigg rasped, his voice dry as dust.
Anthony dropped to one knee beside him, setting the Winchester aside.
“You’re a stubborn fool,” he said, the relief in his voice undercut with anger. “You should’ve kept riding.”
Brigg tried for a grin, though it came out twisted with pain. “Yeah, well . . . I’ve never been much for orders.”
Abigail was already on her knees with the medical bag open. “Hold him still,” she said sharply. “This went deep.”
Anthony slid an arm behind Brigg’s shoulders, steadying him as Abigail assessed the damage.
“You’re crazy,” Anthony muttered under his breath. “You almost died out here for nothing.”
“Wasn’t for nothing,” Brigg said, chuckling. “Got three of Vanburgh’s men before they got me. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Abigail shot him a stern look, sweat streaking through the dirt on her brow. “It won’t mean a thing if you bleed out before noon,” she replied. “Hold still.”
Anthony tightened his grip on Brigg’s shoulder, feeling the man’s weight sag against him. The smell of blood was strong, coppery, and thick.
“Think you can patch him?” Anthony asked, his voice low but urgent.
Abigail’s eyes flicked to his, then back to Brigg’s wound. “I can keep him alive. But he’s weak. He won’t be walking out of here on his own.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened. He looked down at Brigg, whose grin had faded into a grimace. The man’s breathing was shallow, and his skin was clammy. But his eyes still burned with the same stubborn fire.
“I told you to ride,” Anthony said again, shaking his head. “Why the hell didn’t you listen?”
Brigg coughed, his voice little more than a rasp. “Same reason you never do, Hawk. Bad habit.”
“You look half-dead already,” Anthony said, shaking his head.
Brigg tried to grin, but he struggled. “Half’s better than all the way.”
Abigail’s hands moved quickly. She pulled free a pair of scissors, cut the shirt away from Brigg’s chest, and hissed softly under her breath when the full extent of the wound came into view.
The bullet had torn into Brigg’s side, near the ribs. The flesh was mangled, blood still seeping out around a clot that wasn’t holding.
“He shouldn’t be alive,” Abigail said bluntly, grabbing a fresh bandage. “Not with this much blood loss. He’s stubborn, that’s all.”
Brigg’s chuckle was a dry rattle. “Always said I was too stubborn to die.”
Anthony watched as Abigail pressed the bandage hard against the wound. Brigg flinched, teeth clenched tight. But he didn’t cry out.
“Hold it there,” she told Anthony, guiding his hand to keep the pressure. She dug through her bag again, pulling out a small bottle and a needle.
“You are stitching him up here?” he asked. “In the dirt?”
“It’s this or he bleeds out,” Abigail answered quickly. “I don’t have a choice.”
Anthony nodded once, swallowing hard. His hand pressed steady against Brigg’s side, his palm slick with blood.
The deputy’s eyes fluttered, but he forced them open again, focusing on Anthony.
“Still bossing everyone around, huh?” Brigg asked.
Anthony glanced down. “You don’t get to talk, not while you’re leaking like a stuck hog.”
Brigg’s grin was weak but real. “Fair.”
Abigail poured the contents of the bottle over the wound. Brigg hissed, his back arching as the liquid burned into the torn flesh.
“Holy hell—” he started, but Abigail’s sharp voice cut him off.
“Bite down.” She shoved a strip of leather into his hand. “Now.”
Brigg obeyed, clenching it between his teeth as she threaded the needle.
Anthony felt his stomach tighten as the steel flashed in the dim light. He had seen wounds patched before, but seeing Abigail’s small hands moving with such determination hit him differently.
She was still young despite the years of experience. Her face was smudged with grime, yet she didn’t hesitate.
The first stitch went in. Brigg groaned, his body shuddering. Anthony held him firm.
“Stay with us,” Anthony said, his voice low. “Keep your eyes open, Brigg.”
“Trying,” the deputy muttered around the leather. Sweat rolled down his temple.
Abigail worked quickly, pulling the wound together one painful inch at a time. Each stitch made Brigg’s jaw tighten harder, each tug of the thread pulling him back from the edge by sheer force of will.
Anthony kept his eyes on him, speaking steadily. “You came back when you didn’t have to,” he repeated. “Could’ve been riding north right now, clean and safe.”
Brigg’s breathing was shallow, but his eyes flicked up. “Wouldn’t have . . . sat right,” Brigg replied. “Knowing you all were down here. Fighting without me.”
Anthony shook his head, lips pressed thin. “You almost got yourself killed.”
The deputy’s laugh was weak, more breath than sound. “Almost.”
Abigail tied off the thread, wiping her brow with the back of her arm. Her hands were shaking now, though she fought to keep them steady as she packed cloth against the stitched wound and wrapped it tight with strips of linen.
“That’s as good as it’s going to get until we get him back to town,” she said. “But he’ll live . . . if he doesn’t start bleeding again.”
Anthony exhaled, relief washing over him like a tide. He adjusted his grip, lowering Brigg gently against the boulder again.
The deputy let out a weak groan, then looked between the two of them. “Didn’t think . . . I’d end up in your care, ma’am,” he said. “Always figured I’d die in some dusty street with no one bothering to notice.”
“You’re not dying,” Abigail said firmly, her hands still pressing the bandage. “Not if I can help it.”
Brigg’s eyes softened, gratitude flickering there, though his voice stayed rough. “Then I owe you one.”
Anthony sat back on his heels, wiping blood from his hands onto his pants. His chest felt heavy, like the weight of everything had finally come crashing down now that Vanburgh was dead.
But looking at Brigg, Anthony couldn’t shake the fear that it wasn’t over. That death was still circling, waiting for one of them to slip.
“You stay awake, you hear me?” Anthony said, his tone firm. “Don’t you go fading on us now.”
Brigg’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a grin. “Bossy as ever.”
Anthony leaned back, pulling the Winchester closer to his side. His eyes swept the ridge below, where fires still smoldered and Shoshone voices carried.
“We’ll move you soon,” Anthony said. “Once we know the ground’s secure.”
Abigail finished tying off the last strip of cloth, then sat back. She let out a long breath, exhaustion plain on her face.
“Will he make it?” Anthony asked, his voice quieter now.
“If he rests,” Abigail confirmed. “If he doesn’t tear the stitches. If he’s lucky.”
Anthony met her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Then we’ll make sure he’s lucky.”
Brigg closed his eyes briefly, then forced them open again. “Don’t count me out yet, Hawk,” he said. “Got more fight in me.”
Anthony’s mouth tightened into something like a smile. “Then hang onto it. We’ll need you yet.”
The three of them sat in the shadow of the shack as the wind carried the distant sound of voices and the last echoes of battle.
Anthony pushed himself to his feet, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He adjusted the Winchester on his shoulder, eyes narrowing toward the smoke-drifted slope below.
“I’ll bring the horses,” he said, his voice steady though his chest still burned from the climb. “We’ll ride to town straight away. No more waiting here.”
Brigg stirred weakly, his head turning toward him. His face was pale, and his lips were dry, but his eyes still held their stubborn fire. “Hawk . . .” his voice rasped, each word clawing its way out. “Vanburgh . . . he’s dead for sure?”
Anthony met his gaze without flinching. “I shot him. Saw him drop. He won’t be crawling back from it.”
Brigg’s shoulders sagged, the smallest flicker of relief ghosting over his features. His hand fumbled weakly at his blood-soaked coat, patting at an inside pocket until his fingers hooked around something stiff.
“Good,” he muttered, drawing out a folded sheaf of parchment stained at the edges. His hand trembled as he held it out, the movement slow and deliberate. “Don’t want . . . to get blood on them.”
Anthony stepped forward, but Brigg shook his head, forcing the papers toward Abigail instead. “Take ’em, ma’am,” Brigg said, his voice rough but insistent. “Original deeds. Everything Vanburgh wanted. Don’t belong in my hands anymore.”
Abigail hesitated only a heartbeat before accepting them. Her fingers brushed the rough parchment as she tucked the bundle carefully into her bag, safe among her instruments and bandages.
“You’ll live to see them signed yourself,” she said softly, trying to put strength into the words.
Brigg huffed a laugh that turned into a cough. “Wouldn’t mind . . . but if I don’t, least they’re in good hands.”
Anthony sighed deeply, his eyes flicking toward the path down to the valley. “Save your strength, Deputy. We’re not burying you today.”
Brigg gave him the ghost of a smirk. “Better keep your word, Hawk.”
Anthony nodded once, grim and certain. “I will.”
Then he turned, boots crunching against gravel as he started down toward where the horses waited below, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the whispering wind through the rocks.