Chapter 41
Anthony kept his gaze low as he rode into Silver Cross. The weight of dust, sweat, and blood pressed heavily on his shoulders.
Beside him, Abigail guided Tilly with surprising steadiness for someone who hadn’t slept in what felt like days.
Across the way, Brigg slumped in his saddle, his body tied to keep him upright.
There was a stubborn grin flickering on his pale face as if he refused to give the town the satisfaction of seeing him broken.
Behind them trailed Red Hawk, Black Wolf, and a handful of Shoshone riders, silent and watchful.
The main street of Silver Cross was busy enough that day: miners, shopkeepers, ranchers’ wives with baskets of produce. They all froze when they caught sight of the ragged procession.
Murmurs spread quickly, whispers chasing down the boardwalk like prairie fire. Eyes followed them. They were hostile, curious, and fearful at the same time. Anthony kept his gaze forward with his jaw locked tight.
The ridge was saved, and Vanburgh’s hold over the valley had snapped. The rest of them would learn soon enough.
Abigail leaned toward him, her voice low. “They’re staring.”
“They’ll get over it,” Anthony said flatly. “Just keep your eyes on Brigg.”
“Don’t need eyes,” Brigg croaked, his voice dry. “Still here, ain’t I?”
Anthony shot him a sidelong glance. “Barely.”
Brigg’s grin widened, though it trembled at the edges.
“Barely is better than not at all,” he replied.
They slowed as they reached the crossroads at the center of town. Abigail scanned the street, her expression tightening.
“We must find somewhere to take him,” she said. “I would have suggested my clinic, but it’s . . . it’s not there.”
“Where would be a better place, ma’am?” Anthony asked carefully.
Abigail chewed her lip, her eyes flicking from the saloon to the sheriff’s office. Finally, her gaze landed on the undertaker’s parlor at the end of the street. She hesitated, then let out a reluctant breath.
“The undertaker’s,” she said. “It’s the only place with a proper table. Sterile enough, at least compared to the street.”
Anthony blinked at her. “The undertaker’s?”
Brigg let out a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. “Now that’s fitting,” he said. “Patch me up where they lay out corpses. Got a dark sense of humor, Doc.”
Abigail shot him a sharp look. “It wasn’t meant as a joke. It’s the only option.”
“Best damn joke I’ve heard all week,” Brigg said, shaking his head. “Let’s go visit the undertaker before he thinks I’m checking in permanent.”
“You’re impossible,” Anthony said, sighing.
“Stubborn,” Brigg corrected. “Difference matters.”
They made their way down the street, the crowd parting in uneasy silence. Anthony could feel the townsfolk’s judgmental stares drilling into his back. To them, the Shoshone warriors were still enemies, no matter the battle they’d just fought side by side.
But no one dared to speak. Not when Anthony Hawk’s hand rested so casually near the butt of his revolver.
At the undertaker’s door, Anthony dismounted and helped Brigg down, grunting at the dead weight of the man. Brigg hissed through his teeth but refused to cry out. Abigail hurried ahead, banging on the door until the undertaker himself cracked it open.
“Miss Abigail?” he asked, surprise thick in his tone. “This ain’t a social hour.”
“We need your table,” Abigail said without ceremony. “Now.”
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Brigg half-collapsing against Anthony. He glanced past them to the Shoshone warriors and swallowed hard. “This ain’t proper—”
Anthony’s glare cut him short. “The table. Now.”
The undertaker stepped aside without another word.
Inside, the air was cooler and heavy with the faint scent of embalming fluids and wood polish. Abigail cleared a space on the broad oak table, pushing aside a set of polished tools. Anthony and Red Hawk eased Brigg onto the surface, where he lay flat with a groan.
“Thought I’d end up here one way or another,” Brigg murmured. “Didn’t think I’d still be breathing.”
“Quiet,” Abigail said, snapping open her medical bag. “You’ll need your strength for this.”
Brigg smirked weakly. “Don’t suppose you’ve got whiskey in there?”
Anthony leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the windows as if expecting Vanburgh’s ghost to come riding back into town.
“Drink after,” he said. “If you live.”
Abigail shot him a sharp glance. “That’s not helpful.”
“Not supposed to be, ma’am,” Anthony said, shrugging one shoulder.
She ignored him, rolling up her sleeves and pulling out the needle and thread once more. Her hands were steady despite the exhaustion etched into her face. The undertaker hovered nearby, wringing his hands until Black Wolf stepped forward, silent and towering.
One look was all it took for the man to retreat to the far corner, wisely deciding silence was his safest choice.
Brigg tried to crane his head toward Anthony. “Maybe this was worth it.”
Abigail pressed her fingers against the edge of his bandage. “Worth it if you live,” she said. “Now hold still. This will hurt.”
“Ma’am, everything hurts already,” Brigg muttered. “Do your worst.”
Anthony moved closer, resting a firm hand on Brigg’s shoulder as Abigail began her work. She had to undo her old, hurried stitches and replace them with new ones.
The needle flashed, thread pulling taut through torn flesh. Brigg clenched his jaw, every muscle straining, but he didn’t cry out. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hands gripped the table’s edge until his knuckles turned white.
“You ever think,” Brigg rasped between clenched teeth, “that maybe we picked the wrong side of trouble?”
Anthony raised a brow. “Not once.”
“Figures,” Brigg said, hissing as the needle bit again. “You’re too damn stubborn to doubt yourself.”
Anthony’s mouth curved into a grim smile. “Takes one to know one.”
Abigail worked quickly, her concentration absolute. The room was silent except for Brigg’s ragged breathing and the soft scrape of her tools. Red Hawk and Black Wolf stood near the door, their eyes sharp as hawks, watching anyone who dared pass in the street.
When Abigail finally tied off the last stitch and bound the wound with clean cloth, she sat back, her face pale with effort.
“That will hold for now,” she said softly. “But you’re not out of danger. No moving, no fighting, no lifting. You need rest, Deputy.”
Brigg let out a shaky laugh. “Rest, huh? Never been good at that.”
Anthony leaned in close. “Then you’d better learn. Because I didn’t drag you back to Silver Cross just to watch you die on an undertaker’s table.”
Brigg’s eyes flickered, softening with a rare, unguarded look. “Appreciate that, Hawk,” he replied. “Even if you are a miserable fool.”
Anthony chuckled, the sound short and rough.
The undertaker finally cleared his throat from the corner. “Never seen the like,” he muttered. “Shoshone in my parlor, a deputy on my table, and Miss Abigail playing doctor.”
Abigail turned, her expression sharp. “Unless you want to trade places with him, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”
The man paled and said no more.
Anthony let his gaze sweep the room, from Abigail’s determination to Brigg’s battered stubbornness, to the watchful calm of Red Hawk and Black Wolf. Against all odds, they had survived.
He straightened, resting one hand on the Winchester slung across his back. “We’ll stay here until he’s steady enough to move. Then we figure out the rest.”
Abigail met his gaze, exhaustion in her eyes but fire in her voice. “We’ll keep him alive, Anthony,” she said. “I promise.”
Anthony gave a single, firm nod. “See that you do.”
The air hit Anthony like a wall when he finally stepped out of the building. It might have been dry, hot, and heavy with dust, but it was cleaner than the reek of blood and carbolic inside. He pulled in a long breath, trying to settle the roil in his chest.
It didn’t help that half of Silver Cross was staring at him.
He could feel their eyes crawling over him. Their faces were tight, whispers carrying across the street.
He knew what they saw: a man covered in dust and blood with his shirt torn open. And worse, everyone in town knew he’d broken out of Muldoon’s jail not long ago.
Anthony didn’t flinch under their stares. He’d lived with worse. But when his gaze drifted across the street, it froze.
The sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Winston Muldoon stood on the porch, rocking back on his heels like he had all the time in the world. His thumbs hooked casually into his gun belt, his wide frame blotting out the sunlight on the planks behind him.
Anthony felt the weight of the moment settle in his gut.
Sheriff Muldoon had been Vanburgh’s man for years. His pet lawman, his shield against the town’s anger. If Vanburgh wanted a deed signed, Muldoon found the ink. If Vanburgh wanted a rival silenced, Muldoon found the excuse.
Anthony knew it, the Shoshone knew it, and half of Silver Cross knew it. But nobody had ever spoken it aloud.
Now Vanburgh was dead. And Muldoon was standing right there.
Anthony adjusted the strap of the Winchester on his shoulder and crossed the street. The whispers behind him swelled, the kind of nervous chatter that prickled at the back of his neck.
Muldoon didn’t move. He just watched him come.