Chapter 10
The desert was still when Blaze first saw the buzzards. They wheeled slowly against the white sky, black specks circling over the far edge of a dry pass.
“Easy, girl,” Blaze said, patting Nancy’s neck. The horse snorted. “Let’s see what’s got their attention.”
He nudged the mare forward, descending the slope. The sand was soft underfoot and hot enough to sting through his worn boots. As they neared the bottom, the wind carried the smell.
It was sharp, sour, and unmistakable. Death.
Blaze reined in, eyes narrowing. A shattered stagecoach lay half-tipped in the ditch, one wheel broken clean off and another buried in the sand.
The harness traces stretched loosely across the ground where the horses had been cut free .
. . or shot. Bullet holes riddled the coach’s frame.
The door hung half open, flapping in the dry wind.
“Riders,” Blaze muttered. His chest tightened. “Has to be.”
He swung down from the saddle with his Colt Navy drawn. The sand whispered under his boots as he stepped closer, scanning for movement.
That was when the bodies came into view. Two men in torn dusters sprawled near the wheels, blood long dried. Another lay slumped half inside the coach. Their clothes had been stripped of anything worth keeping.
Blaze crouched, brushing dust from a patch of the stage’s paintwork.
“Mesa Line,” he read aloud. “They run east from Red Rock.”
“Don’t move,” a woman’s voice snapped behind him.
He froze. The sound was sharp. It wasn’t panic. It was control.
“I said don’t move,” the voice repeated, lower now. “Hands where I can see ’em.”
Slowly, Blaze raised his hands. “I ain’t looking for trouble.”
“Then you found it anyway.”
He turned his head slightly, catching her in the edge of his vision.
She stood about ten yards away with her Hawken Plains rifle aimed at his chest. Dust clung to her boots and skirt, and her hat was tilted low against the sun.
Her dark hair was tied back. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion and something colder.
It was pain.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Name’s Blaze Buckeye,” he said. “Just passing through.”
“Liar,” she said flatly. “You’re a grave robber, maybe worse. I’ve seen your kind.”
“I ain’t touched a thing,” Blaze said. “I just found it.”
“Everyone just finds it,” she shot back. The rifle didn’t waver.
He turned slowly to face her, palms still open. “You think I did this?”
Her eyes flicked to the stage, to the bullet holes and the bodies. “I know who did it.”
“Then we might have something in common,” Blaze said. “I’m hunting the ones who did.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed further. “That so?”
“Yeah,” Blaze said. “Dean Wilder and his Hollow Creek Riders.”
The air changed. Her grip tightened, and her lips parted like she’d been struck. For a moment, the only sound was the wind.
“You know that name,” Blaze said quietly.
She lowered the rifle a fraction, still ready but no longer aimed to kill.
“I know it,” she said. “Too damn well.”
Blaze took a slow step forward. “You lost someone?”
“My brother,” she replied, clenching her jaw. “Emilio Vega. They hit this coach three days ago. He was driving it.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaze said. And he meant it.
“Don’t be,” she said, voice hardening. “They’ll pay for it soon enough.”
Blaze nodded once. “Then we’re after the same devils.”
Her eyes searched his face for a long moment, trying to read him. “You look too young to be hunting killers.”
“I got a reason,” Blaze said. “Wilder’s gang burned my home. Killed my ma.”
The words came out raw, scraping his throat. Her eyes softened just slightly, then cooled again.
“That makes two of us with graves to answer for,” she said.
“Seems that way.”
For a while, neither spoke. The desert wind whistled through the hollow coach, making the door creak. A single buzzard circled low overhead.
“You gonna keep pointing that thing, or are we talking now?” Blaze asked, lowering his hands.
Her lips twitched. “Depends how much I trust you.”
“That ain’t something I can buy,” Blaze said. “You’ll have to decide it yourself.”
She hesitated, then finally slung the rifle over her shoulder.
“Marisol Vega,” she said. “I’ve been trailin’ the Hollow Creek Riders since the day they left him in the dust.”
“Trailing alone?” Blaze asked.
“I don’t need help,” she said quickly.
“Didn’t say you did,” Blaze replied. “But it’s dangerous country for one person.”
“I can handle it.”
Blaze nodded toward the coach. “Looks like you handled something already.”
Her gaze followed his, and her expression tightened.
“I came back for what they left,” she said. “Buried Emilio proper. The rest can rot.”
Blaze looked at the bodies. “They were passengers?”
“One was the guard, the other . . . I don’t know,” she replied. “Didn’t ask names before they died.”
“Wilder’s work,” Blaze said. “Always leaves a mess.”
Marisol crouched beside the wreck, brushing sand off a set of tracks.
“They rode north,” she said. “Six, maybe seven men. Heavy horses, drag marks from sacks. Gold, maybe. Or loot.”
Blaze joined her, studying the prints. “You can read them well.”
“My brother taught me,” she said, standing. “Didn’t think I’d be using it for this.”
“World don’t ask what we want,” Blaze said quietly.
She looked at him, something unreadable flickering in her dark eyes. “You said your name was Buckeye?”
“Yeah.”
“There was a bounty notice out of Carson City a while back,” she said. “Said the Hollow Creek Riders killed a ranch hand named Buckeye years ago. That your kin?”
“Pa,” Blaze said. “They gunned him down when I was younger.”
Her expression hardened again. “Then you’ve been livin’ with this longer than I have.”
“Too long,” Blaze said.
The wind picked up, stirring dust between them. Blaze looked out across the horizon.
“You plan on following those tracks?” he asked.
“Until I find them,” she said. “And when I do, I’ll put one bullet in each.”
“Then maybe I’ll ride with you for a while,” Blaze said.
Her hand went to her hip. “I told you, I don’t need—”
“I ain’t saying you do,” Blaze said. “But we’re after the same men. Might be we get further together than apart.”
She studied him again, weighing the offer. Her fingers brushed the worn wood of her rifle. “You any good with that Colt?”
“Good enough,” Blaze said. “Better when it counts.”
“Hmm,” she said. “You look like a kid.”
“I ain’t a kid anymore,” Blaze said. His tone left no room for doubt.
For the first time, Marisol smiled. Just barely. “We’ll see about that.”
She turned back toward the wreck, pulling a small tin from her satchel.
“There’s water in the coach,” she said. “If you’re stayin’ close, take what you can. I’m movin’ on soon.”
Blaze nodded, walking toward the shattered door. Inside, the floorboards were slick with old blood, the smell thick and metallic. He found a canteen wedged behind the seat, half-full, warm but drinkable. He swallowed hard, then offered it toward her.
“You want some?”
“I’ve got mine,” she said, eyes still scanning the horizon.
Blaze corked it, tucking it to his belt. “They can’t be far,” he said. “If they hit three days ago, they’ll be slowed by what they stole.”
“They’re clever,” Marisol said. “They scatter, double back, move by night.”
“Then we’ll do the same,” Blaze said.
Her head tilted slightly. “You talk like you’ve hunted men before.”
“I’ve hunted worse,” Blaze said.
Her eyes narrowed. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
Blaze’s hand rested on the Colt at his hip. “I was ready the moment they took everything.”
Marisol looked away. “Careful with words like that. Revenge will rot you from the inside.”
“Maybe so,” he replied, meeting her gaze. “But it’s all I got left.”
The wind carried silence between them. Marisol looked at him again, her face softer this time.
“You remind me of him,” she said quietly. “My brother. Always thought he could fix the world if he tried hard enough.”
“Maybe he could’ve,” Blaze said.
“Not anymore.”
Blaze looked back toward the wrecked stagecoach. “Then let’s make sure they don’t do it again.”
He turned to go, but Marisol called after him. “Buckeye.”
He stopped, half turning.
“If you slow me down,” she said, “I’ll leave you in the dust.”
Blaze gave a faint smile. “Fair enough.”
She watched him a moment longer before turning back to her work, checking her rifle, wiping the sand from the barrel. Blaze walked back to Nancy, the horse’s ears twitching at the smell of death. He stroked her neck.
“Looks like we got company now, girl,” he said.
Nancy snorted softly, tail flicking. Blaze glanced once more at Marisol.
The woman was standing among the wreckage, the sun cutting gold across her face and the rifle gleaming like a warning.
He felt the faintest spark of something he hadn’t felt in days.
It wasn’t hope, but it might have been direction.
He looked toward the horizon and the way the Riders had gone.
“We’ll find them,” Blaze said under his breath. “You hear me, Ma? I’ll find every last one.”