Chapter 18
The desert was dying around them.
Wind came in long, hollow breaths through the canyons, carrying grit that stung the eyes and settled in every crease of leather and skin.
The horses shifted restlessly near the edge of camp, stamping at flies and flicking their tails. Above, the sun bled through a veil of dust, its color the same as old brass.
Dean Wilder sat on an upturned crate, a cigar burning low between his fingers. The map lay across his knees, corners weighted with stones. He had looked at it so many times he could trace every ridge and dry riverbed from memory.
The gold.
Buckeye’s gold.
He still saw that name like a curse etched in his mind. Thomas Buckeye had robbed him blind. Him and the men who’d staked their futures on that haul. Two years of searching mines, cutting deals, spilling blood, and the bastard had slipped off with every last ounce.
The sound of boots crunching on gravel broke through his thoughts. O’Hara approached, the brim of his hat torn from some forgotten fight. He carried the look of a man who’d outlived his better choices.
Behind him trailed Clay and Ike, both younger but cut from the same coarse hide. Jeb was last, his arm still bandaged from a scuffle weeks back. The four of them moved with the rough precision of wolves used to following the same scent.
“Boss,” O’Hara said, dropping a half-bent tin cup beside the fire. “Got word from the Riders.”
Wilder didn’t look up yet. He drew on his cigar and blew out a long, steady plume. “Go on.”
“They come from Red Mesa,” he said. “Said Benton and Jed ain’t comin’ back. Myles too.”
The cigar stilled between Wilder’s fingers. A faint pop came from the fire as sap burst in the wood.
He let the silence hang long enough that even the horses stopped shifting.
“What happened?” he asked finally.
O’Hara exchanged a quick glance with Clay, who scuffed at the dirt before speaking.
“They ran into trouble,” he replied. “Some folks said a boy with a Colt and a woman with him. There was another fella too . . . an Indian by the sound of it.”
Jeb spat into the dirt. “Ain’t just trouble then. That’s blood.”
Wilder ground the end of his cigar into the sand and stood. His coat swayed with the movement, catching the firelight.
“You tellin’ me three of my best got laid down by a boy, a woman, and an Indian?”
“That’s what the Riders said,” O’Hara answered. “They didn’t stick around to count bodies, but word’s spreading.”
“Names?” Wilder’s voice came out low, steady as a drawn knife.
“They said the boy called himself Blaze.”
The name landed like a hammer blow. Wilder turned toward the horizon, his jaw tightening until the tendons stood out like rope. Blaze.
Buckeye’s son.
He was still on the road.
The desert wind picked up, scattering the ashes from the fire. Somewhere out beyond the cliffs, a coyote barked.
Clay broke the silence. “You think it’s true, boss? That it’s him?”
“Ain’t no coincidence,” Wilder said. “The son’s walkin’ in his daddy’s ghost trail.”
He knelt and touched the edge of the map with two fingers, as if he could feel the weight of time pressing against it.
“Buckeye took from me,” he said quietly. “Took everything I built, everything I bled for. Now, his boy’s out there thinkin’ he’s the one chasin’ me.” He straightened and looked at them all in turn. “That ends here.”
O’Hara folded his arms. “We’re down three, and half the horses are runnin’ lean. You wanna go huntin’ in this heat, we’ll need to resupply.”
“We will,” Wilder replied. “But first we plan.”
He walked to the wagon at the edge of camp and pulled out a weather-beaten chest. Inside were maps, notes, and a single leather pouch. He tossed it on the crate with a heavy clink of metal inside.
“That’s what’s left,” he said. “Nuggets from the first dig. Buckeye took the rest when he double-crossed me. I know that he buried that haul somewhere between here and the ridge. You boys know what that means?”
Clay frowned. “Means the gold’s still out there.”
“It means we don’t stop till we find it,” Wilder said. “And now we got two reasons: the gold and the boy.”
Jeb sat forward, eyes glinting with something mean. “You want him brought in?”
“No.” Wilder’s voice hardened. “I want him to see it comin’. I want him to feel what it’s like when everything you love burns down around you.”
The fire popped again, throwing sparks up into the dark. Wilder turned away, hands clasped behind his back. His shadow stretched long across the sand, swallowing the smaller ones around it.
O’Hara cleared his throat. “We could set up along the south pass. If they’re headin’ away from Red Mesa, that’s the only route they’ll take.”
“Maybe,” Wilder said. “But Blaze ain’t like his old man. Buckeye ran from fights. The boy runs toward them. He’ll come for me sooner or later.”
He crouched and drew lines in the dirt with a stick, marking valleys and routes.
“Red Mesa, Hollow Creek, then the south pass,” he murmured. “They’ll need water, supplies, and rest. We’ll catch their scent at the wells.”
Ike knelt beside him. “That’s a lot of ground, boss.”
“It is,” Wilder said. “So we make sure they come to us.”
“How?” Clay asked.
Wilder looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“By givin’ them something they can’t resist.” He stood again and pointed toward the wagon.
“There’s a stash from the old days,” he said.
“Buckeye’s mark is still on the crates. We plant it near the mesa ridge.
Word will spread fast enough. Folks talk, Blaze listens. He’ll think he’s close to me.”
“And when he comes?” O’Hara asked.
“We’ll be waitin’,” Wilder said. “All of us.”
The gang exchanged glances, the firelight carving hard angles across their faces. Jeb grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Clay cracked his knuckles. Only O’Hara seemed uneasy, his gaze lingering on the dark horizon.
***
Night deepened over the camp. The fire burned lower, sending up faint plumes that wavered in the shifting wind.
The men settled around it, cleaning their guns or staring into nothing. Somewhere beyond the dunes, a storm brewed. Lightning flashed behind the clouds like the slow beat of a giant’s heart.
Wilder sat apart, watching the horizon. His coat was draped over his shoulders, and his hat sat low enough to hide the pale scar that cut across his brow.
He could still see it clearly: the canyon, the dust, and the way Thomas Buckeye smiled before turning his back.
Some nights, he still woke to the sound of Thomas’s mocking laughter.
He rubbed at his temple, jaw tight. The firelight painted the side of his face in red and shadow.
“You think a man’s ghost can curse his own son?” he asked suddenly.
Clay looked up from his rifle. “Can’t say. Don’t figure ghosts give much of a damn about bloodlines.”
“Maybe not,” Wilder said. “But I do.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I knew Buckeye’s kind. Smooth talker. Always thinkin’ two steps ahead. Blaze . . . he’s the same breed. But boys like that break easier when you hit what they care for.”
O’Hara nodded. “The woman and the Indian.”
“Exactly.”
The wind shifted again, colder now. Wilder took a fresh cigar from his coat and struck a match. The flare lit his eyes, catching the faint gleam of gold dust clinging to his cuffs.
“I want eyes in every town between here and the mesa,” he said.
“We move at dawn. O’Hara, take Clay and scout east. Jeb, you and Ike check the canyon wells.
Get those fools from Maplewood on this as well.
I want as many hired guns as we can get.
Bring Caleb and his crew too. Anyone smellin’ of trail dust or new gunpowder, you tell me. ”
The men nodded, already rising to ready their gear.
“And one more thing,” Wilder added. His tone softened, but it wasn’t gentle. “Next time you see that boy, don’t shoot him right off. Let him draw first. Let him think he’s got a chance.”
Clay frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes he don’t.”
He blew out the match and leaned back, listening to the storm roll closer. Thunder rumbled across the flats. The air smelled of rain and dust.
For the first time in months, Wilder felt something stir in his chest. Not joy. Not anger. Just a deep, hollow certainty. It always came before bloodshed.
By midnight, the camp had gone quiet. Wilder alone stayed awake, staring into the last embers of the fire. His reflection shimmered there, fractured by flame and shadow. He saw the years in his own face.
He thought of Jed, Benton, and Myles lying in the dirt, blood drying on saloon floors. Good men, mean as they came, and loyal when it mattered. He’d handpicked them years ago, promising them gold, freedom, and power.
And now they were gone. Taken by a kid who barely knew how to hold a Colt steady.
He reached down, touched the butt of his revolver where it hung at his thigh. It was old but well-kept, the ivory grip worn smooth from his hand. Thomas Buckeye’s hand had once held one just like it.
“You should’ve killed me clean,” he muttered to the dark. “Now I’ll do what you couldn’t. Finish it proper.”
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote called again. Wilder smiled faintly.
“Go on and howl,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ left to scare off now.”
He pushed himself up, brushed the dust from his coat, and looked out over the moonlit plain. The desert stretched away in every direction.
Somewhere out there, Blaze Buckeye was coming.
And when he did, Wilder would be ready.