Chapter 42
Anthony didn’t break his stride as he closed the distance between himself and the sheriff.
Sheriff Winston Muldoon watched him come. The man hadn’t aged gracefully. His belly had thickened, his jowls sagged, and the gray threading through his beard gave him a wolfish look that had lost its edge years ago.
But the way his thumbs rested on his gun belt said he still thought himself quick enough to draw.
“Well, well,” Muldoon said when Anthony reached the porch. His voice carried easily. “Look what the desert coughed back up. Thought I had you tucked in nice and proper a few days ago. Funny how jail cells don’t seem to hold you.”
Anthony planted himself at the bottom of the steps, his shadow long in the dust. He kept his gaze steady on the sheriff’s. “Cells built on lies don’t hold forever,” Anthony replied.
A murmur stirred through the townsfolk watching from across the street.
Muldoon heard it, too. His eyes narrowed.
“You’re a fugitive,” Muldoon said, louder now.
“Busted out of my jail, took up with savages, and brought war to this valley. You think you can just stroll back into town like nothing happened?”
Anthony’s hand twitched near his belt, but he didn’t draw. Not yet. “War came to this valley long before me,” Anthony replied. “And Vanburgh brought it, not the Shoshone. Not me.”
Muldoon’s lip curled. “Vanburgh? Man was half this town’s bread and butter. He kept money flowing, kept law and order in place. He—”
“He’s dead,” Anthony cut him off, his voice sharp enough to slice the air. “Put a bullet in him myself.”
That landed like a thunderclap. The whispers surged, people leaning in from doorways and balconies. The sheriff’s face darkened, the color rising up his neck. “You’re lying.”
Anthony shook his head slowly. “Vanburgh’s gone. Ridge is safe. His men scattered or dead. He won’t be coming back to pull your strings anymore.”
Muldoon’s jaw clenched, his hand shifting closer to his Colt. “Careful what you say next, Hawk. Men who talk that bold tend to end up dead quick in Silver Cross.”
Anthony raised his chin, his voice steady but louder now, so the whole street could hear.
“The judge in Denver knows everything,” he said. “He knows about Vanburgh’s lies and his forged claims. Knows I’m the rightful owner of Eagle Rock. Papers are in order, deeds are clean. You try to hang me on some trumped-up charge, Sheriff, and the law comes swinging back for you.”
Muldoon froze.
The silence from the crowd was deafening. Anthony could almost hear their breath hitch as the words sank in.
“You . . .” Muldoon started, his voice low and thick. “You dare stand there—”
“I dare,” Anthony snapped. “And I’ll do more. Everyone here knows what you’ve been. Vanburgh’s shadow. His pet. You silenced voices, sold justice for coin. That ends now. And if there’s any fairness left in this world, you’ll swing for it.”
That last word hung heavy, cruel as a death knell.
Swing.
Muldoon’s face twisted, rage and panic warring behind his eyes. His meaty hand dropped onto the butt of his gun. “You son of a bitch!”
Anthony didn’t move, though his fingers itched near his revolver. His voice dropped, just loud enough for Muldoon but still carrying to the crowd.
“You afraid, Sheriff?” he asked. “Afraid now that your master’s gone, you’ll have to stand on your own two feet? Afraid the law you hid behind will finally notice the blood on your hands?”
Muldoon stepped forward onto the top stair, eyes blazing. “You think killing Vanburgh makes you a hero? Makes you untouchable?” His laugh was a jagged bark. “You’re a murderer, Hawk. Always were. I’ll cut you down right here and call it justice.”
Anthony’s shoulders squared, his breath steady. “Then try.”
The sheriff’s hand twitched.
The crowd leaned in, the entire street holding its breath like the desert before a storm.
Anthony’s pulse hammered in his ears. He could see it all. Muldoon’s heavy frame coiled to draw, the sweat slicking his brow, the slight tremor of anger in his hand.
One wrong twitch, and Silver Cross would see blood on its main street.
Anthony’s gaze stayed fixed on Muldoon, watching the sheriff’s hand twitch near his Colt Paterson revolver. The man’s face was red, and his eyes were blazing with fury. But he wasn’t moving. Not a single finger on the trigger.
“Figures,” Anthony muttered under his breath. “You’re all bark, no bite.” He exhaled slowly, tension coiling down his spine.
He started to step back, sliding his boots across the dust of the street. The townsfolk stirred nervously, but none dared interfere. Muldoon’s glare followed him, every ounce of the sheriff’s fury simmering. Still, there was nothing.
Anthony kept walking, keeping his back loose but alert. He knew the sheriff wasn’t going to shoot. He never had been able to. Too many teeth sunk into him, too many deals for Vanburgh’s gold and influence had made him cautious. Muldoon’s menace was all posturing.
Then a shout cut across the boardwalk, sharp and high: “Get him! Don’t let him leave!”
Anthony’s eyes snapped toward the sheriff’s office. The doors burst open, and a dozen of Vanburgh’s men poured out.
“They were hiding in there!” Anthony growled.
He spun, ducking low as pistols barked. Bullets kicked dust up where he had just stood, slamming into the wood of the boardwalk with jagged cracks.
Instinct took over. Anthony sprinted toward the general store at the corner, weaving through the crowd. The glass windows rattled, shutters splintering as the outlaws fired blindly. Panic and rage fueled their aim.
“Cover!” Anthony shouted to the Shoshone members still standing on the undertaker’s porch.
Red Hawk and Black Wolf slid behind barrels and crates, rifles rising to fire. Abigail was there too. She crouched low with her revolver in hand and grit etched on her face.
Anthony reached the corner of the general store, diving behind a stack of sacks and barrels. Dust rose with each bullet that spat past him, and the acrid smell of gunpowder burned in his nose.
He peered around the edge of the stack. The outlaws were moving quickly, forming into a rough line. They hadn’t expected him to survive the ridge. Now, they were making the mistake of thinking they could finish him off in the street.
Anthony squeezed the trigger of the Winchester. The kick of the rifle bit into his shoulder, and he felt the recoil as the bullet slammed into a wooden post where one of the outlaws had been leaning. The man yelped and staggered back, tripping over a broken crate.
More shots cracked around him. Anthony ducked lower, pulling another round into the chamber. He could see Black Wolf’s rifle bark from behind the general store, cutting down another approaching gunman. Red Hawk fired as well, taking precise shots that forced two men behind barrels.
“Abigail, cover the rear!” Anthony shouted.
She didn’t hesitate, pivoting and firing a round at a man who had tried to flank them. The bullet struck his shoulder, and he tumbled to the dirt with a grunt.
Anthony’s heart hammered in his chest. The town’s main street had turned into a chaos of dust, gunfire, and shouts. He could hear Muldoon yelling from the porch, shouting orders, but the sheriff was doing nothing more than watching now.
The man wasn’t going to draw.
“Of course,” Anthony muttered. He sighted along the rifle, steadying it on the barrel of a broken cart for support.
Another outlaw peeked from behind a post, pistol trembling in his hand.
One careful squeeze. Bang! He dropped the man before the shot even rang out.
The rest of Vanburgh’s men hesitated, exchanging confused looks. They hadn’t counted on Anthony’s ferocity, nor the quiet efficiency of the Shoshone warriors.
“Push them back!” Anthony shouted, moving a step along the edge of the barrels, bringing another man into his sights. He felt the wind kick up from the other side of the street. Dust, debris, and gun smoke swirled into his eyes.
Red Hawk leaned forward, sending another outlaw sprawling with a clean shot. Black Wolf let loose from behind the crates, the hammer snapping on his rifle with deadly precision.
Anthony’s pulse thrummed with every breath. He could hear Muldoon still shouting. He was angry and useless, but the real fight was now against the remaining men of Vanburgh. They had cornered themselves by stepping out of the sheriff’s office. Now, they were paying the price.
He popped up again, firing over the stack of barrels. One man fell sideways, clutching his chest. Another scrambled, trying to reach the safety of a wagon, but Anthony’s shot caught him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling.
“Abigail, keep your head down!” Anthony barked.
She ducked behind the general store’s doorway, moving with the grace of someone who had learned to survive under fire.
The Shoshone were relentless. Red Hawk and Black Wolf coordinated silently, sweeping the street with deadly accuracy, forcing the remaining outlaws to retreat toward the sheriff’s office porch.
Muldoon’s face had gone red, veins standing out on his neck. “I said, get him! Get him now!” he bellowed, but the sheriff stayed on the porch, paralyzed by something: fear, greed, or a lifetime of relying on others to do his dirty work. Anthony couldn’t tell, and he didn’t care.
The last of Vanburgh’s men bolted for the door of the office, but Anthony’s Winchester barked again. Another fell, hands clutching air, dust rising around him.
Anthony crouched behind the barrels, scanning the street. Only a few remained now, pressed against the office porch and too afraid to step forward.
“Red Hawk!” Anthony called. “Move left! Cut them off!”
Red Hawk obeyed, sliding silently across the street. Black Wolf covered him from the other side. The outlaws were trapped, unable to advance or retreat.
Anthony rose slightly and fired once more. The last man tumbled down the office steps. Silence fell over the street.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as adrenaline finally faded away. He kept his gaze on the sheriff, who was fuming. Muldoon’s mouth opened and closed like he was trying to find words, but the words never came.
The town had gone quiet now, the tension heavy in the dusty air. Only the distant murmur of the Shoshone counting heads and tending to the wounded broke the silence.
Anthony stepped carefully out from behind the barrels, his eyes never leaving Muldoon. The sheriff’s hands twitched near his holster, but he didn’t move.
Not one step toward Anthony.
Anthony’s finger itched on the trigger, but he didn’t need to draw. Muldoon’s men were gone, and the threat had been neutralized.
“Not one step,” Anthony said, voice low and dangerous, but calm enough that the sheriff knew he meant every word.
Muldoon swallowed hard, his shoulders sagging slightly. His empire of fear had crumbled in the dust of the main street, and he was left impotent on his porch.
Anthony’s gaze swept the street. The townsfolk stared, half in fear, half in awe, as he stepped over the spent shells and fallen men.
“Stay there,” Anthony said, his tone carrying across the quiet street. “You don’t move, you don’t talk, and no one gets hurt. Understood?”
Muldoon’s lips parted, then closed again. He nodded once, sharply.
Anthony turned his gaze back to the Shoshone and Abigail, letting the tension drain from his shoulders slightly. The fight was over. The last of Vanburgh’s shadow had been extinguished.
But Anthony knew Muldoon would never forgive him. And the day wasn’t truly over. Not until every shred of Vanburgh’s corruption was rooted out and every legal claim secured.
For now, though, he allowed himself a slow breath, feeling the sun warm on his bloodied shoulders as he prepared to face whatever came next.