Chapter 22
“Ride faster, damn you. The sun’s wasting!” Wilder barked.
Dust swirled around the Riders as they thundered across the open flats, hooves pounding like war drums. The gold chest rode in the back of the creaking wagon, wrapped in tarps and guarded by two men who hadn’t taken their eyes off it since the shootout.
Wilder’s face was streaked with dirt, but his grin hadn’t faded since the moment they unearthed the treasure.
“Slow down before the horses drop,” Clay shouted over the wind.
“They’ll rest when I say,” Wilder snapped. He turned in the saddle, the wind whipping his coat back. “You see what’s behind us? Nothing but a dying world. You want to end up like that?”
Clay didn’t answer. He just nodded and pushed his horse harder.
Wilder looked ahead again, eyes burning from the glare. The chest occupied his mind as much as it did that wagon. That dull, golden light seemed to pulse when he closed his eyes.
It wasn’t cursed, no. But it did something to him. Made him feel taller. Smarter. Like every mile ahead already belonged to him.
“You boys ever seen that kind of shine before?” he called out, his voice half a laugh.
“Not in this lifetime,” came a reply from his left.
“That’s right,” Wilder said, his grin turning sharp. “And not in the next one either.”
They reached a stretch of charred land where a ranch once stood. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and rot. Wilder raised a hand, slowing the column. The Riders fanned out, picking through the wreckage.
“Take what’s worth taking,” Wilder said. “Water, food, ammunition . . . everything else burns.”
“Already burnt,” muttered O’Hara. He kicked at a blackened post. “Ain’t nothin’ left.”
Wilder dismounted, boots crunching over cinders. “Always something left. Even bones got stories.”
He crouched near a half-buried crate and pried it open with his knife. Canned goods. He tossed one to O’Hara.
“See? You just gotta look.”
O’Hara caught it awkwardly. “You think Blaze is still coming after us?”
“Blaze Buckeye,” Wilder said, tasting the name. “That boy’s a ghost following his daddy’s trail. He’ll keep coming till I make him stop.”
“How?” he asked. “He’s found us everywhere we went.”
Wilder stood and wiped sweat from his brow. “By showing him that he’s chasing smoke.”
He walked back toward the wagon, the other men watching him with that mix of loyalty and fear he liked so much. He climbed onto the seat and rapped his knuckles on the wooden lid of the chest.
“You know what this is, boys?” he said.
“The Riders’ fortune,” Jeb answered confidently.
“No,” Wilder said, shaking his head slowly. “This is our future. This is what that fool Buckeye died over. What his son thinks belongs to him. But it don’t. It belongs to the man strong enough to take it.” He patted the lid as if it were alive. “And that’s me.”
A murmur went through the gang. Someone whistled.
“Maybe we don’t have to run anymore,” O’Hara said.
“Damn right we don’t,” Wilder said. “We ride where we want. Take what we want. The frontier’s ours now.”
He pointed to the horizon where there was a faint line of smoke curling in the distance.
“That’s a settlement near Copper Ridge,” he said. “Families, farmers, some of them probably helped Buckeye when he passed through this way. We’ll pay them a visit. Remind them who’s in charge.”
O’Hara hesitated. “They ain’t fighters.”
“Neither were the ones before them,” Wilder said. “They learned.”
Wilder hopped off the wagon and climbed onto the saddle of his black Arabian mare. He spurred his horse forward. The Riders followed without a word.
***
By the time they reached Copper Ridge, the sky had begun to bruise toward dusk.
The town wasn’t much. It consisted of a few shacks, a stable, a trading post, and a small church that was half-built. Folks stopped what they were doing as the Riders appeared.
“Evening, folks!” Wilder called, tipping his hat. “We’re just passin’ through. Need food, water, and respect.”
A man stepped out from the stable, his eyes wary. “You can buy what you need same as anyone.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Wilder said, sliding off his horse. “Only, I’m paying in bullets and mercy.”
The man paled at his answer.
“Load the wagon,” Wilder said without looking back. “And make sure the good Reverend leaves the church doors open. Never know when we might need to confess our sins.”
Screams broke out as the Riders fanned across the town. Windows shattered. Chickens scattered. Wilder stood in the middle of the street, calm as a preacher, watching the chaos unfold.
“Reckless,” Ike muttered next to him. “We don’t need this kind of heat, boss.”
“Heat?” Wilder laughed. “You feeling it? That’s life, Ike. That’s what it means to stop hiding.”
He glanced toward the church. Nothing was going to stop him now. He felt invincible.
“Bring the preacher out,” he ordered his men.
Moments later, three of the bandits dragged the preacher into the street. He was an older man with a pale face and steady eyes.
“Son,” the preacher said quietly, “you can still turn back from whatever road you’re on.”
“I like this road,” Wilder said. “Got gold at one end and a grave for my enemies at the other.”
The preacher stared at him in disbelief. Wilder enjoyed seeing such an expression on his face.
“You think gold will fill the hole in your soul?” he asked after a second.
“I think it’ll buy me enough land to bury anyone who says otherwise.”
He turned to Ike without waiting for a response from the preacher.
“We done here?” Wilder asked.
“Wagon is full,” the bandit shrugged.
“Then light the place.”
Ike hesitated, but the others didn’t.
Flames took the stable first, then the trading post. Wilder mounted his Arabian, looking back once at the rising smoke. The preacher was kneeling in the dirt, praying loud enough for the wind to carry.
“Save your breath, old man,” Wilder said. “Ain’t no God on this trail.”
They rode out before the roof of the trading post caved in behind them.
Night fell quickly across the desert. The fire glow faded to a distant flicker.
Wilder rode at the front, the others trailing silent. He liked the quiet after a burn. It felt like a heartbeat slowing down.
“Boss,” Ike said finally. “We got too many eyes on us. Word’s gonna spread fast.”
“Good,” Wilder said. “I want it to spread.” He looked back over his shoulder, his grin catching the moonlight. “I want Blaze to hear every word,” he continued. “I want him to know what happens when he plays lawman in a land with no law.”
“So, what’s next?” Clay spoke up hesitantly from his saddle.
“We send him a message,” Wilder said. He gestured to a man riding near the wagon. “Caleb! You can write, can’t you?”
“Some.”
Caleb had only been riding with Wilder for a month. He was one of the many men who only showed up when Wilder needed numbers.
He didn’t trust easily. To Wilder, it was pointless to have a lot of men surrounding him all the time.
The more men he had, the more betrayal could take place. At least, he saw it that way.
“Good. You’ll ride into every town from here to Red Rock Crossing,” he said. “Tell them Blaze Buckeye is chasing me for gold that ain’t his. Tell them he’s a thief’s son, chasing a thief’s legacy. Make sure the story spreads before he even gets there.”
Caleb frowned. “That’s a dangerous errand.”
“So’s breathing out here,” Wilder said. “You do it anyway.”
He pulled a few gold coins from his coat pocket and tossed them to the man.
“Buy yourself a new horse,” he said. “And if anyone asks where you heard it, you tell them Wilder himself said so.”
Caleb caught the coins, weighing them in his palm like they might bite. “You got it, boss.” He rode off into the night, hooves fading into silence.
Wilder leaned back in his saddle, the desert wind brushing against him. He listened to the rolling of the wagon full of gold behind him. The coins jingled, reminding him of the value of the wagon.
The stars came out slowly. He looked down at his gloved hand . . . the same hand that had pried open the chest.
Not cursed. Just earned.
“Boys,” he said, turning his horse toward the faint line of the mountains ahead, “we’re not just Hollow Creek Riders anymore. We’re kings of the dust.”