Chapter 12
“Again,” Marisol said.
The crack of the revolver echoed across the dry flats, the sound bouncing off red stone and fading into the wide silence. Blaze exhaled through his teeth, lowering the gun. The can he’d been aiming for sat untouched atop a rock twenty paces away. Dust puffed beside it where his bullet hit the dirt.
“Missed,” Marisol said.
“I can see that,” Blaze muttered.
She stepped up beside him, boots crunching against the grit, and took the Navy from his hand. Her eyes flicked to the horizon, then back to him.
“You’re flinching before you pull the trigger,” she added.
“I ain’t,” Blaze said.
“You are.” She handed the gun back, grip-first. “The way your shoulders move . . . you’re bracing like you’re about to take a punch,” she pointed out. “Stop doing that.”
He rolled his neck, frustrated. “Hard not to when it jumps like a mule.”
Marisol’s mouth twitched, just short of a smile. “You’ll get used to it. Try again.”
Blaze took aim. The revolver felt heavier with each round he fired. The morning sun pressed down hot against the back of his neck, sweat beading under his collar. He focused on the can.
“Breathe,” Marisol said. “Slow. Let your lungs do the work. Don’t fight the gun. Make it dance with you.”
Blaze breathed in, let it out, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot rang out clean this time. The can flew off the rock.
Marisol nodded. “Better.”
“Guess I just needed the right teacher,” he replied, shrugging.
“Don’t get smug,” she said, turning away. “You hit it once. The desert wind’s forgiving. A moving man won’t be.”
Blaze’s grin faded, but his pride remained intact. He reloaded. “Then I’ll learn to hit a moving man.”
“Good,” Marisol said. “You’ll need to.”
He didn’t understand. All this time, he thought he was a better shot. Perhaps it was different when he was under pressure.
This felt too . . . controlled. He had time to think. Maybe that was the problem.
Graycloud watched them from the shade of a mesquite tree, a small fire crackling beside him. He chewed a strip of jerky. He had been quiet all morning, and his eyes remained unreadable.
“You shoot like your father?” he asked.
Surprised at the mention of his father, Blaze looked in his direction.
“You knew my pa?”
“Didn’t have to,” Graycloud answered, shaking his head. “I’ve seen your kind. Men who aim with their hearts instead of their heads. Sometimes it makes them legends. Sometimes it gets them killed.”
Blaze holstered the revolver. “Which one do you think I’ll be?”
“Ask me when you’re still alive in a month,” the Indian said.
Marisol chuckled under her breath. “He’s right. You got fire, kid, but fire burns quick if you don’t learn control.”
Being referred to as a child wasn’t new to Blaze, but it felt odd in the presence of Marisol and Chato. Especially since neither of them looked a day over twenty.
It must have been the trauma that gave them so much wisdom.
“Then teach me,” Blaze said, folding his arms.
“I am,” she replied. “Now pick up that can. We’re doing it again.”
He groaned but obeyed, jogging to fetch the dented tin. When he came back, Marisol had moved the rock farther away.
“That’s twice the distance,” Blaze said.
“That’s the point.”
He raised the revolver again with his jaw set. The can blurred in the shimmer of heat. His heartbeat thudded steadily in his ears. He fired and missed.
“Too fast,” Marisol said.
He shot again. Missed again.
“Still too fast.”
He exhaled, anger creeping in. “Then how slow do you want it?”
Marisol stepped closer until she was beside him. “Slow enough to mean it.”
Blaze felt her presence at his shoulder. It was close, calm, and patient. He tried once more. This time, he took his time, lined up the sight, and fired.
The can leapt and tumbled into the dust.
Marisol smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Graycloud rose, dusting off his hands.
“Enough shooting,” he said. “Now he learns to see.”
“See what?” Blaze asked.
Graycloud motioned for him to follow. They walked past the sparse brush and into the low basin where the sand darkened with scattered stones. Marisol looked equally confused but decided not to question the Indian’s motives. Graycloud crouched and pointed to the ground.
“What do you see?”
Blaze squinted. “Just dirt.”
“Look closer.”
He crouched beside him. There were faint marks in the sand. Half-moon shapes spaced evenly apart.
“Hoofprints?” he guessed.
“Three riders, heading north,” Graycloud said. “Two heavy, one light. The light one’s horse is younger. See the sharper edge here?” He traced a finger along the impression. “The dirt’s newer too. Maybe three hours old.”
“You can tell all that just from that?” Blaze asked.
“I can tell more,” Graycloud said. “One of them limps. That mark there . . . boot drag. His left leg drags shorter than the right.”
“That’s . . .” Blaze shook his head. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s survival,” Graycloud said simply. “You’ll learn. Come.”
He led Blaze farther into the basin, showing him signs Blaze would have never noticed. Broken twigs, a single hair on a branch, faint ash buried under dust.
“This is how you find men like the Riders,” Graycloud said. “They move fast, but the earth remembers.”
Blaze crouched again, running a finger over a print. “You been tracking them long?”
“Since they killed my uncle,” he replied, his eyes darkening.
Marisol seemed to hold her breath behind them.
The words hung heavy. Blaze didn’t speak for a while.
“You’ll get your justice,” Blaze said after a few seconds.
“I’m not sure it’s justice I’m after,” Graycloud replied.
By midday, they stopped to rest. Marisol sat under a rock shelf cleaning her rifle, Graycloud sharpened his knife, and Blaze lay on his back staring at the sky. The sun was a cruel coin overhead.
“You two ever stop?” Blaze asked.
“Not when there’s blood to answer for,” Marisol said without looking up. “Of course, I’m only speaking for myself.”
Blaze turned his head toward her. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Her hand stilled on the rifle. She stared at it for a long time before answering. “They took my brother,” Marisol said. “Shot him down. He was just a guard. They killed him for the gold, then laughed about it.”
She looked up at Blaze, her eyes hard. “I buried him myself,” she continued, reminding him. “Haven’t stopped looking for those bastards since.”
“We’ve got the same reason,” Blaze said.
“Maybe,” she said. “But reasons don’t mean much if you can’t back them up.”
He sat up, elbows on his knees. “I’ll back them up.”
Marisol gave a small, humorless smile. “We’ll see.”
That was when Graycloud tossed his knife into the dirt beside them, the blade sticking upright.
“You both talk too much,” he said. “Words don’t find trails. Eyes do. Come. Blaze, your turn to lead.”
He blinked. “Me?”
The Indian pointed at the horizon. “Find where they went.”
Uncertainly, Blaze rose, scanning the sand. He walked a few yards, crouching, studying every mark and shadow. At first, he saw nothing. Then, he spotted a faint scuff trailing north, where dry grass bent in one direction.
“There,” he said. “Wind’s pushing east, but the grass is leaning north. Something moved through not long ago.”
Graycloud gave a rare nod. “Better than I thought.”
“You might just make a tracker yet, kid,” Marisol added with a small grin.
As the afternoon deepened, the training bled into habit. Blaze learned to move quieter, to place his boots where the sand wouldn’t crunch, to breathe slowly so his heart didn’t drown his hearing. Graycloud showed him how to tell fresh droppings from old, how to smell the dust for sweat and iron.
When they stopped their horses again, Marisol tossed him her rifle.
“Your turn,” she said.
Blaze caught it awkwardly. “You serious?”
“You need to know how to handle more than a pistol,” she said.
He sighted down the barrel. It felt heavier, colder, and more alive than his Colt. He supposed it was all good practice.
He had to be prepared for Wilder.
“Hold it tighter,” Marisol said. “Like it owes you something.”
Blaze adjusted, aimed at a lone cactus fifty yards away, and fired. The kick nearly sent him backward. The shot missed cleanly. The horses whinnied at the bang.
Marisol didn’t hide her laughter. It was the most genuine sound.
“Maybe don’t hold it that tight,” she offered.
“Should’ve warned me it bites,” Blaze muttered.
“Everything worth using bites,” Graycloud said.
They moved again as the sun progressed through the sky. Blaze’s body ached, and his arms were sore, but the rhythm of being on the road steadied him. His head was somewhat clearer now.
Instead of thinking about his mother’s death and how he had failed her, his thoughts drifted to his sister and what he could still do to give her a better life.
They made camp near a dry arroyo. Marisol started the fire while Graycloud briefly vanished into the brush, returning with a pair of desert hares. Blaze gathered kindling, his hands raw and blistered.
Marisol looked at him across the flames. “You’ve got heart, Blaze. I’ll give you that.”
“That sounds like a compliment,” Blaze replied.
She shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Graycloud tossed one of the hares onto a flat rock near the fire. “Heart is fine,” he said. “But heart without patience dies early.”
“I’ve got patience,” Blaze insisted.
Marisol snorted. “You’ve got anger.”
“Yeah,” Blaze said softly. “That too.”
They ate in silence for a while as the desert whispered around them.
“You think we’ll find them soon?” Blaze dared to ask as he stared into the fire.
“They’re close,” Graycloud said. “Maybe a day ahead. You’ll know their camp when you smell it. Whiskey, sweat, and greed—they’re all the same.”
Blaze assumed that Graycloud was talking about outlaws. He must have had a few run-ins with bandits before Wilder.
Slowly, Marisol reloaded her rifle, the metal glinting in the firelight.
“When we do, keep your head down until I tell you otherwise,” she said. “You don’t rush in . . . you don’t try to play hero. You understand?”
“I ain’t afraid of them,” Blaze replied, looking between his new campmates.
“Good,” she said. “Fear keeps you sharp. Pride gets you shot.”
“You ever run out of advice?” he asked.
“Not for people who need it,” Marisol replied without hesitation.
Graycloud leaned back against a rock, eyes half-closed. “You both talk too much again.”
Blaze laughed quietly. “Guess we do.”
For a moment, it almost felt normal. Three souls bound by revenge, sitting in the calm before the storm. But Blaze knew what lay ahead. The Riders were out there, somewhere beyond the black hills.
He looked down at the revolver in his lap, its barrel glinting in the firelight. His reflection flickered in it. A boy’s face hardened by loss and tempered by purpose.