Chapter 31
“Move, damn you! That slope won’t wait for lazy hands!” Wilder barked, his voice echoing off the granite walls.
The air in the high country was thin and dry, every breath cutting through dust kicked up by boots and hooves.
A dozen of his men strained to drag the stolen mules loaded with sacks of gold up a narrow trail toward the mouth of an old silver mine.
The mine sat carved into the cliffside like a wound.
“Keep that crate steady!” he snapped again. “You drop one more ingot, and I’ll feed you to the buzzards myself!”
“Easy, boss,” Ike called, his back slick with sweat. “We’re movin’ as fast as—”
“Faster,” Wilder cut him off.
He stood above them on a rocky ledge, watching through narrowed eyes as the Riders obeyed. He could see the tremor in their movements and the sideways glances when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Fear kept them working. Fear and gold. That was all that was left to bind them.
They had to leave their wagon at the bottom of the mountain. There was no way the horses could pull all that weight through these roads.
That mission alone took up half the day: steal mules from a local ranch, ditch the wagon, and move the gold from the wagon onto the mules.
Dean Wilder was close to losing his patience.
“Bring the rest of that powder inside,” he said, motioning to two others. “If Buckeye’s coming, I want this whole place ready to blow if he sets foot on that trail.”
“Blaze Buckeye,” murmured one of the men, almost under his breath.
Wilder’s head snapped around. “What was that?”
“Nothin’, boss.”
“You sure?” He stepped closer, boots crunching over shale. “Because it sounded like you said his name.”
The man swallowed hard. “Just . . . just makin’ sure everyone knows what we’re fightin’ for.”
“We ain’t fightin’ for him,” Wilder said, his voice low and sharp. “We’re fightin’ for what’s ours. The gold. The land. The life we took when no one else had the guts to.”
He turned back toward the mine entrance. Inside, shadows moved. Men were hammering timbers, stacking crates, and setting up firing positions along the narrow tunnels. The old supports groaned under the strain of life again. Wilder had always liked the sound; it reminded him of bones under pressure.
“Get the rifles up on those rocks,” he ordered. “Two men at each ridge. No fires at night, no voices carrying. I want eyes open till sunrise.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna climb this high without dying trying,” said O’Hara, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s suicide for any man to come up here.”
“That’s what they said about me once,” Wilder muttered.
He crouched, scooped a handful of dust, and let it slip through his fingers. The wind took it fast, scattering it into the canyon below.
“See that valley, O’Hara?” he asked. “That’s where half our men are buried now. Buckeye did that.”
“He’s just a kid,” O’Hara said. “And we still got twenty.”
“Twenty,” Wilder repeated softly. “You think twenty will stand against him? Against his Indian friend and that woman with the long rifle?”
He spat in the dirt. “No. But twenty men with high ground, good aim, and enough lead to shake the earth—that’s a different story.”
Behind them, the clang of metal echoed through the mine. Clay and Jeb were unloading crates of dynamite near the entrance.
“Careful with that powder!” Wilder barked. “You blow us to hell before Buckeye even gets here, I’ll make sure your ghosts don’t rest easy.”
The men slowed, muttering apologies.
O’Hara crossed his arms. “You think he’ll come this way?”
“He’ll come,” Wilder said. “He’s been following blood and smoke all this time. Can’t stop now. He’ll climb right into his grave thinking he’s marching toward glory.”
He started pacing, long strides crunching over gravel. His mind wouldn’t rest. He could see it all: the ranch, the town, the men he’d lost . . . Kane’s promises that never quite held true. He’d trusted too many fools already.
There wouldn’t be any more mistakes.
“You ever wonder,” O’Hara said carefully, “why you let Kane hang around so long? He’s been feedin’ you stories that don’t always add up.”
Wilder shot him a cold glance. “You think I don’t know that snake’s playing his own hand?”
“Then why keep him close?”
“Because snakes bite the ones who forget they’re there,” Wilder said. “And I ain’t forgotten.”
O’Hara grunted. “You sure he won’t turn on you?”
“I’m countin’ on it.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. The wind howled through the ridges, carrying the smell of gun oil and mule sweat. Wilder felt the mountain vibrating faintly beneath him, like it remembered the miners who’d once hollowed it out. It was a good place for a last stand.
A shout broke the silence.
“Boss! Wagon coming up the trail!”
Wilder strode to the edge. Below, a pair of his hired guns struggled to haul a broken wagon wheel over the rocks. The mules were skittish, their eyes rolling white.
“What in hell are they bringing now?” he called down.
“Provisions, sir! And the rest of the gold!”
“Get it inside! Now!”
As they obeyed, Wilder felt something crawl up the back of his neck. A thought he couldn’t shake. The more gold he stacked in that mine, the heavier it felt on his conscience. Not guilt, but weight. The kind that pressed on a man’s chest when he tried to sleep.
“Looks like they’ve figured out how to get it up the road after all,” Wilder said. He tore his eyes away from the wagon.
“Leave a crew at the mouth,” he added. “Once we’re sealed in, nobody leaves without my word.”
“You mean to hole up here, boss?” O’Hara asked.
“For now,” Wilder said. “Till Buckeye shows himself.”
“And then?”
“Then we end it.”
He walked into the mine.
The air inside was damp and close. Torches flickered along the walls, their light glinting off streaks of silver ore. Men were busy, setting traps, laying lines of dynamite, and stacking crates into barricades. Wilder’s boots echoed down the tunnel as he moved deeper in.
“Make sure them vents stay open,” he said. “Don’t want to suffocate before we get to the fight.”
One of the younger Riders, Clay, looked up from his work. “You really think he’ll come all this way, Mr. Wilder?”
Wilder stopped. The boy’s eyes were wide, scared but curious.
“He’ll come,” Wilder said. “He’s the kind that can’t help himself. You kill his men, burn his town, and he’ll chase you till his boots fall apart.”
“Sounds kinda like you, boss,” another man muttered.
Wilder grinned thinly. “Maybe that’s why I respect him.”
He moved on, hand brushing the tunnel wall.
The stone was cold and rough under his palm.
He remembered the first time he’d found this place.
It was years ago . . . before all of it.
The miners had gone bust and left their tools behind.
He’d thought about taking it then, making it his own. Now, he finally had.
O’Hara caught up to him. “What if he doesn’t come alone? What if the law’s ridin’ with him?”
“Then we kill them all.”
“You sure about that?”
Wilder stopped again. “You ask a lot of questions tonight, O’Hara.”
“I got a lot on my mind,” he replied.
“So does everyone,” Wilder said. “You want to live through this, stop thinking and keep working.”
He started back toward the entrance where the fading light spilled in. The sky outside had turned red, the sun bleeding into the ridges. Men were still hauling supplies, still sweating under the weight of gold. It all shimmered faintly in the last light.
“Bury the rest of that under the floor,” Wilder said, pointing at the sacks. “If we lose the mine, we don’t lose the fortune.”
“Boss,” Caleb called out. “What’s the point of hidin’ it if we all die here?”
“The point,” Wilder said, “is to die with something worth dying for.”
The man fell silent.
He turned again, scanning the horizon. The canyons stretched endless and empty, every shadow a threat. He thought he saw movement once, but it was gone before he could draw his gun.
“You see that?” he asked quietly.
O’Hara squinted. “I don’t see nothing.”
“That’s what worries me,” Wilder said.
He stood there a long moment, the wind tugging at his coat, the smell of powder thick around him. Somewhere in the valley below, animals were howling. The sound crawled up the cliffs like laughter.
Wilder rubbed his jaw. “Tell the boys to sleep in shifts. Double the guards.”
“Yes, boss.”
O’Hara started to leave, but Wilder called after him. “If you see Kane before I do, put a bullet in his leg,” he said. “I want him alive but limping.”
O’Hara nodded once. “You think he’ll show up?”
“Anything is possible,” Wilder said.
He watched O’Hara disappear into the shadows of the mine.
Alone again, Wilder leaned against the rock wall and closed his eyes for just a second. He could hear the echoes of the noise. The sound should have pleased him. Instead, it made his skin crawl.
“Buckeye,” he whispered. “You think you can outlast me? You don’t know these hills like I do.”
The wind shifted, carrying dust into the tunnel. Wilder drew his Smith & Wesson revolver and held it loosely at his side.
Somewhere deep inside, the mountain creaked. It was a low, hollow sound like breath drawn through a coffin.
He smiled. “Let it come,” he said softly. “Let him come.”