Chapter 17
The desert stretched wide and endless before them.
It had been three long days since they’d left the cabin behind.
Three days of dust, silence, and the ache of old wounds that hadn’t quite healed.
The sun burned hotter with each mile, and their horses moved slower, ribs showing through dust-caked hides.
Blaze rode ahead, the dry wind tugging at his shirt. Every bone in his body ached from the saddle, and every time he glanced toward the horizon, he thought of Nancy. She was the mare that had carried him since boyhood.
Now she was buried beneath a dry creek bed, and her death still sat like a stone in his gut.
Marisol rode behind him, her Hawken Plains rifle slung crosswise over her back. She hadn’t said much since the fight; she only watched.
Graycloud brought up the rear, silent as a shadow, his eyes reading the trail like scripture. He hadn’t spoken in an hour, but Blaze could feel the man’s awareness everywhere.
By the third evening, they crested a low bluff. And there it was.
Red Mesa.
It burned beneath the setting sun like a city made of fire. The plateau rose high above the desert floor, streaked with veins of orange and gold. Thin smoke curled from chimneys below, faint against the horizon.
Blaze reined in and rested a hand on his saddle horn.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”
Marisol drew alongside, narrowing her eyes. “Looks smaller than I remember.”
“A place like that can change quick,” Graycloud said. “Gold comes, people swarm. Gold runs out, people scatter.”
Blaze squinted down at the town. The buildings sat close together, warped by heat and time. He saw a crooked church steeple, a saloon sign swaying on rusty chains, and dust blowing through the narrow street.
Somewhere below, faint music drifted. It was a fiddle half a note sharp.
“You sure this is Red Mesa?” Blaze asked.
“Sure enough,” Marisol said. “Ain’t another town foolish enough to build this close to the cliffs.”
Graycloud pointed with his chin. “Smoke from cook fires. Stables full. We’ll find what we need.”
“Or they’ll find us,” Blaze replied.
“This is suicide,” Marisol whispered.
Blaze pretended he didn’t hear her.
They rode down the north road, the heat still clinging even as the sun dipped. The town felt half asleep. A dog lay under a wagon, tail flicking lazily at flies. Two men argued over a crate near the general store. Somewhere, a piano note rang out wrong and went unanswered.
Something in the stillness made Blaze’s skin prickle. It felt like a place holding its breath before the lightning struck.
“We’ll head to the saloon,” Marisol said. “People talk when they drink.”
“Keep your coats closed,” Graycloud added. “No one needs to see iron unless they ask for it.”
“What about your rifle?” Blaze asked.
Marisol patted the butt of her Colt Paterson on her hip. “I’ll manage.”
They tied their horses outside. The saloon door hung crooked, its paint long gone. Music leaked from a piano that didn’t quite keep time with itself.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the sweet rot of spilled whiskey. A few men hunched over a poker game. A woman mended a shawl by the window. The barkeep polished a glass that hadn’t been clean in years.
For a moment, it all felt ordinary. It was like one of those rare places the desert forgot to claim.
Then the rhythm changed.
Outside, three riders approached. Blaze caught the shape of them through the window glare. Broad shoulders, long dusters too heavy for the heat, and hats pulled low.
One had a scar running from chin to ear. Another had a silver horseshoe pinned to his vest that glinted whenever he moved. The third stayed slightly back. He was smaller and meaner-looking, with twitchy eyes that never stopped moving.
“Hollow Creek Riders,” Blaze whispered.
Marisol’s jaw set. “Yeah. Wilder’s men.”
They dismounted, boots hitting the ground in perfect rhythm. The saloon seemed to go quiet, even the piano faltering mid-note.
The scarred man pushed the doors open and stepped inside like he owned the place. His grin showed gaps where teeth should have been.
“Well, well,” he drawled, sweeping his gaze across the room. “Ain’t this a sight. Guess Wilder’s hunch was right.”
“No reason for trouble,” Graycloud said, voice even.
The man laughed. It was a harsh and scraping sound. “That’s the thing about trouble. It don’t always need a reason.” He flicked his eyes toward Blaze. “Orders were simple enough . . . bring the Buckeye boy in. Kill anyone who stands beside him.”
Blaze’s fingers twitched near his Colt. Marisol’s hand drifted toward her own revolver.
“You got a death wish walking in here like that?” she said coolly.
The man’s grin widened. His partner beside him rapped his knuckles against his holster and said, “Maybe he’s got a few to spare, Benton.”
Benton chuckled low. “Ain’t that right, Jed?”
“That’s right,” Jed responded.
The third man snorted and stepped aside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air in the saloon turned thick as stew.
“Easy,” Graycloud said again. “We don’t want a fight.”
“Then why’re you here?” Benton asked. “Ain’t nowhere else to drink? Or are you huntin’ ghosts?”
“Maybe both,” Blaze said before he could stop himself.
Benton’s grin froze. The scar on his cheek twitched. His hand went for his gun.
Jed moved first, sliding sideways toward the doorway, cutting off their exit. The unnamed man’s eyes gleamed.
Blaze’s hand dropped toward his Colt, but Marisol moved faster. In one motion, she drew her Paterson, the long barrel glinting in the lamplight.
“Not in here,” she said.
Her tone was cold enough to freeze hell.
Benton hesitated, then laughed too loudly. “You think you can stop this? Wilder pays better than fear.”
The smallest of the three lunged. His hand slapped leather and tore his revolver free.
The first shot shredded a lamp from the wall. Oil and glass sprayed like rain. The room exploded into chaos.
“Down!” Marisol shouted.
Blaze hit the floor. A bullet screamed past his ear, splintering the table beside him. He rolled behind a chair as another shot cracked through the piano, silencing it for good.
Graycloud moved like smoke, diving behind the bar and grabbing his bow from behind him. He made one arrow fly, and the twitchy man spun, clutching his stomach before dropping to the boards.
“Two left!” Graycloud called.
Marisol fired from behind an overturned table, her Colt booming twice. Benton cursed, ducking low as wood splinters flew.
“Jed!” Benton barked.
“I see him!” Jed roared. He rushed forward, a shotgun in both hands, boots pounding hard on the boards.
Blaze came up on one knee, heart hammering. The barrel of Jed’s shotgun swung toward him, black as a grave.
“Got you now, kid,” Jed snarled.
Blaze didn’t think. He fired.
The Colt Navy kicked hard. The shot hit Jed in the center of the chest. The man’s eyes went wide, his breath leaving in a shocked gasp. His shotgun dropped. Jed fell back against the doorway, slid down, and didn’t move again.
For a heartbeat, Blaze could only stare. His hands shook. His stomach turned over. He’d killed before he even realized he’d made the choice.
“Blaze!” Marisol’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “Move!”
He blinked, dragging himself back to the moment.
“First one’s the worst,” Graycloud called from the bar. “Keep your head clear!”
Blaze took a breath that burned like smoke.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Alright.”
He slid beside Marisol, reloading with shaking fingers. “You good?” she asked.
“Think so,” Blaze said.
“You did good. Now keep doing it.”
They traded shots across the room. Benton fired from near the bar, his face streaked with blood from a grazing hit.
“You little bastard!” he spat. “You think Wilder’s done with you? He’ll hang your name on the wind!”
Blaze’s jaw tightened. He rose from cover and fired. The bullet tore through Benton’s shoulder, spinning him sideways. His gun clattered across the floor.
Benton stumbled toward the batwing doors, blood trailing behind him. He shoved through them into the street.
“He’s getting away,” Marisol said, moving first.
Blaze followed her out.
The world outside was all sunlight and dust. Benton staggered into the open, grabbing for his gun with his good arm. Blaze’s boots hit the porch behind him.
“Don’t,” Blaze warned.
Benton spat blood and laughed hoarsely. “You ain’t got it in you, boy.”
He reached for the gun anyway.
Blaze fired once. Benton fell hard, his duster spreading around him like spilled ink.
Silence took the street. Only the wind moved, carrying dust through the blood-dark soil.
Blaze stood there with his chest heaving and his Colt still raised. He lowered it slowly, staring down at what was left of the men Wilder had sent.
Behind him, Marisol stepped into the sunlight, smoke still curling from her pistol.
“You alright?” she asked.
“I killed him,” Blaze said quietly.
“Yes.”
“He was gonna shoot me.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even think.”
“You did what you had to,” she said.
He looked at her. “You believe that?”
She hesitated. “I have to.”
Graycloud came out of the saloon, swinging his bow over his shoulder where it belonged.
“Three down,” he said evenly. “They were all Wilder’s men.”
Blaze turned his head slightly, his eyes drawn back toward the saloon. The doors still rocked faintly, creaking in the wind. Through the gap, he could just make out the shapes inside. They were sprawled forms. Blood soaked into warped floorboards, and the air still hung hazy with gun smoke.
The piano sat silently now, one key hanging loose like a broken tooth.
He felt the weight of it settle in his chest. Those men had come for him, but seeing what was left behind still twisted something deep in his gut.
Marisol stood a few feet off, her hand resting lightly on her hip. She wasn’t looking straight at him, but he could feel her watching. Maybe she was wondering if what she’d seen in him just now was something to trust or something to fear.