Chapter 11
Marisol finished her stew first. She stood, brushing the dust from her skirt, then wandered a few paces from the fire.
The night stretched wide around them, the horizon painted with the last bruised hues of dusk.
She pulled her Hawken Plains rifle from its sling and checked the chamber, eyes narrowing toward a nearby ridge.
“You hunting something?” Blaze asked, looking up from where he sat cross-legged beside the fire.
“Maybe,” Marisol said.
Her tone was calm, but her body was coiled tight with focus. Blaze followed her gaze and spotted a bird perched on a dried mesquite skeleton maybe fifty yards away.
“That thing’s half a mile out,” Blaze said.
Marisol didn’t answer. She dropped to one knee, braced the rifle along her forearm, and drew a slow breath. The air went still for a moment. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the low rustle of wind across the sand.
Then she squeezed the trigger.
The rifle cracked through the desert stillness. The bird exploded in a burst of feathers, a clean shot dead through the chest. Its wings folded, and it dropped like a stone.
Blaze could do nothing but stare.
Marisol rose smoothly, chambered another round, and dusted her hands.
“Waste of a bullet,” she said, though a faint grin tugged at her mouth.
“It might have been too loud, though,” Blaze said. “If the Riders are near, they’ll hear.”
“I want them to hear,” Marisol said. “Let them know someone’s out here who can shoot straighter than they can run.”
Blaze grinned despite himself. “Can’t argue with that.”
Marisol slung her rifle back over her shoulder and settled near the fire again. Blaze couldn’t take his eyes off her. Not just because of the shot, but because of the ease with which she’d made it. No hesitation. No breath wasted. Just action—clean and certain.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Blaze asked.
She didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the desert horizon.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, “but my brother taught me. Before the Riders killed him.”
Blaze nodded, the wind catching the brim of his hat. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to stir anything.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “They did.”
After mounting up, the two rode in silence for a while. Birds circled overhead, casting slow-moving shadows across the dunes. Blaze kept his gaze on the faint trail ahead.
“Tracks are getting older,” Blaze said after a bit. “Could be days.”
“Could be weeks,” Marisol replied. “Depends on how many storms have rolled through.”
He smiled a little. “You always this cheerful?”
“Only around people who talk too much.”
He let that go, but inside he found her sharpness strangely grounding. She was hard, that much was clear, but not cruel. Just someone who’d been through hell and come out with her teeth bared.
When the sun completely disappeared, the land began to change. Nancy’s breathing had grown heavy, the kind that said the horse was holding on out of loyalty more than comfort.
“Let’s stop a while,” Blaze said.
Marisol slowed her horse but didn’t dismount. “You planning to rest every five miles?”
“Not planning to kill my horse either,” Blaze replied.
He swung down and led Nancy toward the nearest tree. Marisol finally sighed and followed, though not without muttering something in Spanish he didn’t quite catch.
They let the horses drink from their canteens, pouring just enough to wet their lips. The silence stretched again.
“You think we’re close?” Blaze asked.
“If the Riders came through here, they’ll be heading north,” Marisol said. “Toward the canyon or the old mine. That’s where the gold runs deep.”
Blaze frowned. “You been tracking them that long?”
“Long enough to know how they think.”
He studied her for a moment. The moon cut lines of silver through her dark hair, and her jaw was set like stone.
“Then maybe we can think together,” he said. “Two heads and all.”
She looked at him, unreadable. “You talk like this is some kind of game. It isn’t.”
“I know that,” Blaze said. “They took both my parents.”
That silenced her. For the first time, her expression softened. She leaned against her saddle, eyes down.
Before Blaze could say anything else, Nancy lifted her head, ears pricking. Marisol’s white Mustang stallion did the same, nostrils flaring.
“What is it?” Blaze asked.
Marisol’s hand slid to her rifle. “Someone’s out there.”
They both went still. The desert stretched quiet, only the whisper of wind through the brush. Then, from somewhere ahead, came a soft crunch. It was the unmistakable sound of boots on gravel.
“Show yourself,” Marisol called.
A voice answered, calm and low. “No need for guns. I ain’t your enemy.”
Blaze straightened slowly, squinting toward the rocks ahead. A man stepped out from behind a cluster of boulders—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing worn buckskins and a faded bandana. His hair was long and black, streaked with dust, and his eyes were sharp as obsidian.
“Who are you?” Blaze asked.
“Name’s Chato Graycloud,” the man said. “I’m with the Apache tribe.”
Marisol didn’t lower her rifle. “You follow us?”
“No,” he said evenly. “Followed the same trail you did. Hollow Creek Riders.”
That made Blaze straighten even more. “Are you after them too?”
“They killed my uncle,” Chato said. “Took gold from our people’s ground. Sacred land. They think it’s just dirt and metal. They’ll learn otherwise.”
“Guess we’ve all got reason to see them dead,” Blaze said quietly.
Chato studied him for a moment. “You’re young.”
“Old enough,” Blaze replied.
A faint smile touched the Indian’s mouth. “Maybe.”
Finally, Marisol lowered her rifle, though her eyes stayed wary. “You said you’re tracking them. How far ahead are they?”
Chato stepped closer and brushed his hand through the dust on the ground.
“Two days, maybe less,” he said. “They’re riding light. Got pack horses. No women, no wagons. You’re headed right, but too slow.”
Blaze stared at the Indian. If Chato claimed that the Riders were riding light, it must have meant that they had already dropped off their gold from the stagecoach robbery.
Was Chato mistaken? Was he overlooking certain details?
Either way, Blaze let it go. He supposed none of it mattered as much as staying on the right track.
“We’re careful,” Marisol replied. “That’s how you live.”
“That’s how you lose them,” Chato replied.
The air between them tightened. Blaze stepped in before words turned sharp. “Hold up,” he said. “We all want the same thing. Maybe we help each other.”
Marisol shot him a look. “You trust him?”
“He could’ve shot us from those rocks,” Blaze said. “Seems like reason enough.”
Chato rose to his feet. “I work alone.”
“Then you’ll die alone,” Blaze said quietly. “There’s three of us. Three reasons to see those outlaws gone. Seems smarter to ride together.”
Marisol crossed her arms. “And who put you in charge?”
“No one,” Blaze replied, shrugging. “Just saying what makes sense.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The wind picked up, carrying grit and the faint cry of a hawk. Then Chato gave a slow nod.
“I’ll ride with you,” he said. “Until the Riders are dead.”
“And after?” Marisol asked.
He looked at her. “After, I go my own way.”
Blaze let out the breath he’d been holding. “Good enough for me.”
***
They packed up in silence, the uneasy truce hanging between them. When they mounted, Chato took the lead, scanning the horizon as if he could read the land’s every whisper.
“How do you know which way they went?” Blaze asked as they rode.
Chato pointed to a faint ridge of disturbed sand. “See that line? Horse hooves. Deep. They carried weight.”
“I wouldn’t have noticed that,” Blaze said.
“You will,” Chato replied. “If you live long enough.”
“He’s got spirit, at least,” Marisol said, grinning.
Blaze shot her a sidelong look. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing?”
“Not bad,” she said. “Just dangerous. Spirit gets you killed if you don’t have skill to match it.”
“I’m learning,” Blaze said.
“Hope you’re a quick learner,” Marisol muttered.
They rode on for hours. After a while, Blaze began to feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. Though he knew he wouldn’t have been able to sleep.
Chato rode a few paces ahead, his dark hair hanging down his back. The man moved like he belonged to the land. Never wasted a motion, never seemed to tire.
At last, the Indian glanced over his shoulder.
“We stop soon,” he said. “Horses need rest. So do you.”
“I can ride a little farther,” Blaze answered, though his voice sounded rough.
Chato slowed his horse anyway. “You can. But if you fall out of the saddle, it’s a long walk back.”
Blaze looked ahead at the low rise of scrub and stone. He felt hollow, worn thin, but part of him didn’t want to stop. Not when his mother’s face still burned behind his eyes.
Still, Chato was right. The horses needed water, and his legs felt like wood.
“Over there,” Chato said, pointing toward a cluster of rocks. “We’ll camp in the hollow. Fire won’t be seen from the ridge.”
“Can’t promise I’ll sleep,” Blaze muttered.
“You don’t have to,” Chato replied. “Just breathe awhile.”
Blaze didn’t answer, but the words stuck with him as they turned off the trail toward the hollow.
When they made camp that night, Chato built a small fire, using dry sage so the smoke wouldn’t carry. Blaze sat across from him, watching the man work.
“You always this quiet?” Blaze asked.
Chato didn’t look up. “Words don’t change the trail.”
“Maybe not,” Blaze said, “but they pass the time.”
Chato glanced at him then, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You talk like a preacher’s son.”
“Rancher’s,” Blaze said. “Big difference.”
Marisol laughed softly from where she sat cleaning her rifle. “Not that big.”
“Guess you’d know, huh?”
She gave him a look that could’ve cut glass. “Careful.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Truce.”
The fire crackled softly. Coyotes yipped in the distance. For a while, they ate in silence.
“Your uncle,” Blaze said after a bit, turning to Chato. “What happened?”
Chato’s eyes flickered to the flames. “He was guarding the gold. Riders came in the night. Shot him where he stood. Buried what they stole under sacred earth. My people will not step there now. It’s cursed.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaze said.
“Don’t be,” Chato replied. “Just help me kill them.”
“I intend to,” Blaze said.
Marisol’s voice came firm. “Then we hunt.”
The three sat there, the firelight painting their faces in shades of orange and gold. They were strangers bound by blood and loss, but in that moment something small began to form. Trust.
Blaze leaned back against his saddle, staring into the night.
“Guess we’ve got ourselves a posse,” he said softly.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, nino,” Marisol replied.
Chato gave a single nod. “Sleep now. Tomorrow, we ride.”
Blaze looked out toward the darkness where the horizon melted into the stars. Somewhere out there, Wilder and the Riders rode free, laughing at the lives they’d taken.
He tightened his jaw.
The fire crackled. Nancy snorted nearby. The desert stretched endlessly, but Blaze no longer felt small against it.
For the first time since his home burned, he wasn’t alone.
Perhaps he was a fool for trusting two strangers so easily. But only time would tell.