Chapter 23
“Something’s wrong,” Marisol said.
Her voice cut through the wind like the snap of a whip. Blaze glanced her way, furrowing his brows under the brim of his hat.
They’d been riding half the morning. The sun was already hammering down. Ahead lay the outline of a small frontier town. It was just a few buildings, a church spire, and the promise of a well.
“What makes you say that?” Blaze asked.
“It feels strange around here,” she said. “Too quiet.”
Graycloud slowed his horse beside them, scanning the distance.
“Ain’t seen smoke from chimneys,” he said. “No wagons moving. Not even dogs.”
“Maybe it’s Sunday,” Blaze said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.
Marisol shook her head. “It’s Tuesday.”
They rode on another hundred yards before Blaze raised a hand. “We’ll go in slow. Keep to the edge.”
The town was called Dry Creek, though right now it looked more like it had dried up entirely. A single horse stood tied to a hitching post outside the saloon with its head down and its ribs showing. The windows were shuttered, and the curtains were drawn.
Blaze was the first to dismount. “Stay close.”
“Like we always do,” Marisol replied, slipping her rifle strap higher on her shoulder.
Graycloud scanned the rooftops. “A place like this don’t go this still without reason.”
They moved down the main street, boots crunching over dust. Blaze could feel eyes behind the shutters. They were watching. He stepped onto the porch of the general store and pushed the door open.
A bell jingled, and the sound seemed too loud in the hush.
“Hello?” Blaze called. “We’re just looking to buy feed and water.”
No answer.
He took a few steps inside. The counter was empty, and the shelves were half-stocked. A fly buzzed lazily around a tipped-over jar of molasses.
Then, from behind the counter came a shuffle.
“Who’s there?” Blaze said.
A man rose slowly, hands half-raised. He was middle-aged and thin. His beard was streaked with gray.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said.
“Are you selling?” Blaze asked.
The man nodded, but his eyes darted to the door, then to Blaze’s gun belt.
“Depends on who’s asking,” he replied.
“Name’s Blaze Buckeye,” Blaze said. “These are my friends.”
The storekeeper froze. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You . . . you need to leave.”
Blaze frowned. “We just need supplies.”
“I said leave,” the man snapped. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, and I sure ain’t feeding no outlaws.”
Marisol’s hand went to her hip. “Outlaws?”
The man backed up a step. “There’re posters. All over town. Says there’s a price on your heads.”
Blaze felt something cold slip down his spine. “What kind of posters?”
“Bounty posters,” the man said. “For you, the woman, and the Indian. Wilder’s name on every one of them.”
“Where?” Blaze asked quietly.
“Front of the sheriff’s office,” the man said, his voice trembling now. “Now go before someone sees you in here.”
Blaze nodded once. “Appreciate the warning.” He turned on his heel and walked back outside with his jaw clenched. Marisol and Graycloud followed.
“What’s he talking about?” Marisol asked.
“Let’s find out,” Blaze said.
They crossed the street toward the sheriff’s office. No one came out to stop them, but Blaze could feel the stares through the cracks of every door. When they reached the wall beside the porch, Blaze stopped dead.
There, nailed crookedly to the wood, were three wanted posters. Fresh ink was still curling from the corners.
The first one bore his face. The second, Marisol’s. The third, Graycloud’s.
The words beneath each were simple and brutal:
Wanted for murder, theft, and sedition.
By order of the hollow creek riders.
Reward: $2,000 gold each.
For a long moment, no one said a word. Only the wind moved, tugging at the corners of the paper.
“That son of a bitch,” Marisol whispered.
Graycloud tore one of the posters down. “He’s making you an outlaw in the eyes of every man west of the river.”
Blaze stared at his own likeness. The sketch wasn’t bad. The jaw was set, and the eyes were narrow.
“He’s faster than I thought,” he said.
“He’s not just after us,” Marisol replied, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s poisoning the well.”
“It means we can’t trust anyone,” Graycloud said.
“We never really could,” Blaze replied. He took the poster from Graycloud and rolled it tight. “But now we know for sure.”
A door creaked open behind them. An old woman stood there, clutching a broom like a weapon.
“You best be gone before dark,” she said. “Town’s got no mercy for your kind no more.”
Blaze turned. “Ma’am, we ain’t—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she snapped. “Wilder’s men came through here not long ago. Said you three burned a ranch near Copper Ridge. Said you killed a preacher. We don’t want your kind bringin’ death here.”
“We didn’t do that,” Marisol said sharply.
The woman’s eyes were hard. “Doesn’t matter. Folks believe what they’re told.”
“Then we won’t trouble you further,” Blaze replied.
He motioned to the others, and they mounted up in silence.
Once they were past the last shack, Marisol let out a frustrated breath. “So that’s it? We just ride away?”
“You wanna start shooting townsfolk who don’t know better?” Blaze said.
“No,” she said. “But I sure as hell want Wilder to pay for this.”
“He will,” Blaze said. “But not today.”
Graycloud rode beside him, face unreadable. “He’s making war in a different way now. No bullets. Just words.”
“And words travel faster than horses,” Blaze replied.
They rode on, leaving Dry Creek behind. The land opened up again. The silence between them thickened, broken only by the steady rhythm of hooves.
“You think folks will really come after us?” Marisol asked finally.
“They’ll come for the gold,” Blaze said. “Always do.”
“But we don’t even have it,” she muttered.
“Don’t matter,” Blaze said. “Wilder wants the world to think we do. Gives him cover while he keeps whatever he found.”
Graycloud spat into the dust. “He’s clever.”
“Maybe,” Blaze said, “or maybe he’s desperate.”
They stopped by a dry creek bed that afternoon to rest the horses. Marisol sat beneath a tree, running her fingers through her hair.
“This changes everything,” she said.
Blaze crouched near the waterless stream, running dust through his fingers. “Yeah, it does.”
“People used to smile when we passed through,” she said. “Offer food, water. Now they look at us like we’re bandits.”
“In their eyes, we are,” Graycloud said, looking out at the horizon. “Wilder’s bought the story.”
For a moment, Blaze said nothing. The heat shimmered off the rocks, and the distant thunder was low in the hills.
“What now?” Marisol asked quietly.
“We keep moving,” Blaze said. “Stay off the roads. No towns, no camps. Not till we figure a way to clear our names.”
“And if we can’t?”
Blaze looked up, meeting her eyes. “Then we make sure the man who started it doesn’t live long enough to matter.”
Graycloud gave a small nod. “That I can ride with.”
They saddled up again, moving west into the falling light. The sun bled across the horizon, painting the land in red and gold.
As they rode, Blaze couldn’t shake the image of the posters. His own face staring back at him, lines of ink branding him something he’d never been.
He’d seen outlaws before. Killed more than a few in the last couple of days. But now he understood the way people looked at them—not as men, but as warnings.
“Wilder’s scared,” Graycloud said. “That’s why he’s shouting so loud. Men only lie that hard when they’re covering their tracks.”
“Then we’ll find those tracks,” Blaze replied. “And when we do, we’ll make him wish he never opened that chest.”
They crested a ridge as the first drops of rain began to fall, darkening the dust. Blaze reined in and looked back the way they’d come. The long trail stretched east, toward the towns that no longer wanted them.
He took a breath, heavy with dust and storm air.
“From here on,” he said, “we ride where no one can follow.”
At that, Marisol pulled her hat lower. “Then lead the way.”
And as the storm rolled across the plains, the trio disappeared into the rain.