Chapter 19
The sun rose slowly over Red Mesa, painting the town in shades of rust and ash. Smoke lingered from the night before, reminding Blaze of the bandits the townspeople had decided to burn all at once. The smell of blood and gunpowder hung heavily in the air.
Blaze sat on the saloon steps with his elbows on his knees and his hat tipped to block the glare. His revolver rested beside him. It had been cleaned and reloaded, but his hands still shook.
The gunfight had lasted minutes, yet it replayed in his mind like a wound that refused to close.
“Town’s quiet,” Marisol said.
Her boots crunched against the dirt as she came up beside him.
She looked different in the morning light.
Her dark hair was pulled back, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep.
A streak of soot cut across her cheek. Her rifle hung from her shoulder like always, as if the fight might start up again at any moment.
“Yeah,” Blaze said. “Too quiet.”
Marisol scanned the street. A pair of undertakers hauled a body into a wagon, covering it with burlap. A woman knelt near the well, scrubbing at blood with a rag, her shoulders shaking with every stroke.
Blaze hadn’t realized how many casualties could result from stray bullets.
“They’re burying their dead today,” Marisol said.
He lifted his head. “We didn’t start it.”
“No,” she said, “but we sure as hell finished it.”
Graycloud approached from the far side of the street. He moved with the calm of a man who had made peace with violence long ago.
“The road looks clear for now,” he said quietly. “If those bandits had company, they are long gone.”
Blaze swallowed hard. “They weren’t supposed to be here.”
“They go where Wilder sends them,” Graycloud said. “Doesn’t matter who dies in the middle.”
The three of them stood there for a while, watching the town stir to life. Doors opened slowly, heads poked out, and whispers carried on the morning wind. Some looks were grateful. Others were as cold as river stones.
A bearded man crossed the street toward them, his eyes sharp beneath a sweat-stained hat. His hands were clean, but his coat was black. It was the kind undertakers wore.
“You’re the ones who did all that shootin’ last night,” he said.
“We didn’t have a choice,” Blaze replied, meeting his gaze.
“That so?” The man spat into the dust. “Well, choice or not, you turned this town upside down. Half of us figure we ought to thank you. The other half wants you gone before sundown.”
“And which half are you?” Marisol asked, folding her arms across her chest.
The man gave a dry smile.
“Ain’t decided yet.” He tipped his hat and walked on.
Blaze watched him go. “Guess that answers that.”
Marisol turned her head toward him. “He’s right, you know. We can’t stay.”
“Wilder will hear of it,” Graycloud replied. “He’ll come harder next time.”
“Good,” Blaze said, his voice low. “Let him come.”
Marisol shot him a sharp look. “You sound like you want to die.”
Blaze stared down the street where the blood still darkened the dust from where the bandits had been dragged.
“I ain’t lookin’ to die,” he said. “Just want to finish this.”
“Then we move,” Graycloud said. “Once the horses rest, we ride north. Wilder’s trail will have cut across the flats by now.”
“Let me pack what food’s left,” Marisol said, turning toward the saloon door. “If the folks here ain’t poisoned it yet.”
Inside the saloon, the air was thick with smoke. Chairs lay overturned, and glass glittered across the floor. Nobody had bothered to clean it up yet. Blaze followed her in, his boots crunching on broken bottles.
A few locals huddled by the bar, speaking in low tones. One of them was a woman with gray hair tucked under a bonnet. She looked up as they entered.
“You’re the boy who shot that Rider,” she said.
Blaze froze. “Ma’am.”
She stood slowly, her eyes searching his face. “He was a bad man. But still a man. It takes something out of you, don’t it?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Instinctively, Marisol stepped between them. “He did what had to be done.”
The woman’s gaze flicked to her. “Maybe. But the desert don’t care what’s necessary. It remembers blood all the same.” She turned and went back to wiping the counter.
Blaze exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s right.”
“No,” Marisol said. “She’s old. She’s tired. There’s a difference.”
He leaned on the bar, running a hand through his hair. “It didn’t feel like I thought it would.”
“Killing never does,” she said. “The first time just lets you know you’re capable. That’s the part that eats at you later.”
He looked up at her. “And you?”
Marisol’s expression flickered. “I already had my first time. You don’t forget it. You just learn to live with it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” Blaze replied, staring at the floorboards.
The Hollow Creek Riders were bad. Evil, even. But Blaze was no killer.
Even though he wanted them dead, he knew it would take a lot from him to finish what he started.
He just had to remind himself of his father. His mother. Rachel.
“Then don’t,” she said. “Just don’t freeze up next time.”
He looked at her sharply. “You think I froze?”
“You hesitated,” she said. “That’s the difference between you and Wilder’s men. They never hesitate.”
Outside, the sound of hammers and shovels echoed through the morning air. The undertakers dug fresh graves behind the church, their shovels cutting into dry earth with dull thuds. The preacher’s voice carried faintly. He was murmuring prayers for the dead.
Graycloud stood by the fence, watching.
“White men dig fast,” he said. “They bury faster. My people would sing. Speak to the dead so they don’t walk back.”
“Maybe they should sing here too,” Blaze replied, leaning on the fence beside him. “This place could certainly use it.”
“The desert doesn’t care for songs,” Graycloud said without smiling.
They stood in silence as another wagon rolled by.
Marisol came up behind them with a saddlebag slung over her shoulder.
“Food is packed,” she said. “Water too. Not much, but it’ll get us through a few days.”
“Then we leave before the sun is high,” Graycloud replied.
Blaze didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the line of graves stretching to the edge of town.
“What are you thinkin’?” Marisol asked.
He swallowed. “I’m thinking I’m tired of burying people because of Wilder.”
“Then stop burying and start hunting,” Graycloud said.
Blaze looked at him. “That’s what I aim to do.”
They left Red Mesa by noon.
The town shrank behind them, a smudge of dust and smoke under the wide blue sky. The wind carried faint church bells, or maybe it was just the creak of the saddle leather. Blaze didn’t look back. Not at first.
But after a mile or so, he reined Shadow to a slow stop and turned in the saddle. Marisol and Graycloud paused beside him.
“You sayin’ goodbye?” Marisol asked.
“Just making sure it’s real,” Blaze replied, clenching his jaw.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
He looked at the town—the bullet holes, the rooftops, and the quiet.
“Every time we stop, I think maybe we can rest,” he said. “Maybe it’s done. But it never is. Wilder keeps moving, and we keep following. Feels like we’re chasing smoke.”
Graycloud’s eyes remained on the horizon. “Smoke leads to fire. You’ll find him soon enough.”
“And when we do?” Marisol asked.
Blaze met her gaze. “Then I’ll finish what I started.”
She looked at him for a long time, something like pity crossing her face.
“Just try not to burn yourself out before you ever reach him,” she warned.
He smiled faintly. “I’ll make sure I take him with me.”
They started forward again. The sound of the horses’ hooves blended with the wind, fading into the empty desert.
Behind them, the church bell tolled once—a final echo across the flats.