Fire Made Him (Western Justice Adventures #31)

Prologue

The evening air was cooling over the Nevada desert.

Heat still clung to the rocks and fence posts, but the sun was sinking low.

Thomas Buckeye stood by the corral with a coil of rope in one hand and a hammer in the other.

He had been fixing a loose rail, though his eyes strayed now and again to the horizon.

He spat in the dirt. Then he gave the post one more hard strike with the hammer.

“That’ll hold,” he said. His horses shifted in the corral, restless with the scent of dusk.

Normally, Rachel and Blaze would have been nearby, chattering at him. However, tonight the house was empty. His wife had taken the children into Red Rock Crossing for supplies. Thomas had stayed back to watch the ranch like he usually did. He didn’t mind the quiet. Not most days.

But tonight felt different.

He stood still for a moment, listening. The wind moved through the dry grass. A hawk cried out somewhere far above. Then he caught the sound of hooves.

Not one horse. Several. Coming fast.

Thomas straightened, rope sliding off his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes toward the west. A trail of dust rose against the fading sky.

“Riders,” he whispered.

The horses in the corral stamped nervously as their ears pricked. Thomas dropped the hammer and strode quickly to the porch. His Colt 1851 Navy revolver sat on the table just inside the door. He picked it up, checked the cylinder, then slid it into the holster at his side.

By the time he stepped back outside, the Riders had come into view.

Six of them. Dark shapes moving fast. The Hollow Creek Riders. He knew them the moment he saw their silhouettes. Their slouched hats and the way they carried themselves in the saddle gave them away. He had prayed he’d never see them again.

Thomas felt his stomach tighten. He stood on the porch.

The Riders thundered up and slowed to a trot. Dust swirled around them. At the front was Dean Wilder. His black coat was open, and a cruel smile was plastered across his face.

“Well, well,” Wilder called. “Thomas Buckeye. Still patchin’ fences like a good ranch hand?”

Thomas said nothing. His hand rested near the Colt on his hip.

Wilder swung down from his horse, boots striking the dirt. The others followed. Their spurs jingled as they walked. Their eyes glinted with meanness.

“You know why we’re here,” Wilder said, strolling closer. “We’ve come for what’s ours. Best hand it over.”

“Ain’t got a clue what you mean,” Thomas replied.

One of the Riders laughed. “Playin’ dumb, Buckeye.”

Another spat. “Everybody knows you took it. Gold from that coach we bled for.”

“I never stole from you, and I never will,” Thomas replied, his jaw clenching. “You men brought enough misery without draggin’ my name into it.”

Wilder’s smile widened, though his eyes were cold. “Funny. Folks in town whisper different. Say you tucked it away. Say you think you can outsmart us.”

“If I had gold, I’d have built more than a shack and a fence line,” Thomas replied.

One of the Riders stepped forward, sneering. “Search the place. Tear it apart.”

Wilder raised a hand to stop him.

“Easy, boys,” he said. “We’ll give our friend here a chance to speak true. Last time I’ll ask nice. Where’s the chest?”

Thomas’s fingers brushed the grip of his Colt. “Not here. Never was.”

Silence stretched. The Riders shifted, boots scuffing in the dirt. Then Wilder chuckled lowly.

“I believe you, Tom,” he said. “I truly do. Problem is, belief don’t count for much. We can’t ride away empty-handed.”

Thomas’s heart thudded, but he kept his face calm. “You’ll ride away empty or not at all.”

That made a few of the Riders bark laughter.

“Hear that?” one called out to him. “Buckeye thinks he’s a gunslinger.”

“Maybe he is,” Wilder said, tilting his head. “Man’s got that Colt for a reason. But six against one? Odds ain’t in your favor.”

“I don’t run from odds,” Thomas said after taking a slow breath.

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the horses snorting and the desert wind brushing the grass.

Then Wilder’s hand dropped to his gun. “So be it.”

Steel flashed.

Thomas drew fast. His Colt roared, and one Rider spun back with a cry, blood spraying the dust. Another shot cracked from the gang, splintering the porch post near Thomas’s head.

He dove sideways and fired again. A second Rider pitched off his horse, clutching his chest.

“Kill him!” Wilder shouted.

Gunfire thundered. Bullets tore through the air, smashing glass and kicking up dirt. Thomas ducked behind the water trough, revolver smoking in his hand. He thumbed back the hammer, fired, and caught another Rider in the leg. The man went down screaming.

But they were too many.

“Flank him!” Wilder barked.

Thomas heard boots pounding on both sides. He rose, fired twice more, and dropped one man in the dust. His gun clicked empty. He cursed and reloaded fast.

A shadow loomed. One of the bandits rushed him with a knife. Thomas slammed his shoulder into the man, then drove the Colt into his gut and fired point-blank. The Rider sagged dead.

Pain exploded across Thomas’s side as a bullet tore into him. He staggered and clenched his teeth, blood soaking his shirt.

Wilder strode forward through the smoke, revolver steady in his hand.

“Stubborn bastard,” he said. “Should’ve just given it up.”

Thomas’s knees buckled, but he forced himself upright. He raised his Colt, arm trembling.

“Still standin’, huh?” Wilder asked, his eyes narrowing.

Thomas’s voice was rough but fierce. “My family ain’t here. You won’t touch them.”

“Didn’t ride for them,” Wilder replied. “Rode for the gold. But maybe we’ll find your pretty wife in town. Maybe your boy, too. Heard he’s a quick one.”

Rage flared hot in Thomas’s chest. With a roar, he fired. The shot grazed Wilder’s arm, spinning him back.

The Riders yelled and opened fire all at once. Bullets slammed into Thomas. He dropped to the dirt, gasping. The world was spinning red.

Above him, Wilder clutched his bleeding arm, face twisted in fury. He kicked Thomas’s gun from his hand.

“Dumb to the end,” Wilder hissed. He crouched close. “Your gold dies with you. And your boy . . . he’ll grow up hearin’ what a fool his father was.”

Thomas tried to speak, but blood filled his throat. His vision blurred.

He thought of his wife’s smile, of Blaze riding bareback across the pasture, of little Rachel laughing as she chased chickens. He saw them as clear as day, and it steadied him.

With his last breath, he whispered, “They’ll outlast you.”

Wilder sneered. Then he stood, holstered his gun, and waved his men.