Chapter 35
“Move your heads out where I can see them,” Marisol muttered.
Her breath misted in the cold dawn air as she pressed her cheek against the worn stock of her Hawken Plains rifle. From her perch above the cliffs, the world below was chaos. Gunfire flickered inside the mine mouth, echoing sharply like whipcracks.
She could smell the dust. The acrid smoke drifted up the canyon like a ghost.
“Come on, Blaze,” she whispered to herself. “Give me something to work with.”
A Rider darted into view. He was lean, fast, and shouting to someone in the shadows.
“Got you,” she breathed.
The rifle boomed. The man spun backward, crumpling into the dust below.
Another figure broke from the rocks, crouched low and firing wildly toward the mine.
“Stay still,” she hissed.
She squeezed the trigger again. The echo rolled through the gorge. The second Rider tumbled into the ravine, his rifle clattering beside him.
“Two,” she murmured.
The mine roared again, gunfire like thunder in a storm. Sparks flashed in the darkness of the tunnel. She saw movement—figures were hauling sacks. Maybe it was gold. Maybe tools. She steadied her breathing, tracking the next target.
“Come on, fool,” she said. “Just a little closer.”
A man stumbled into view, clutching his shoulder. He was dragging a crate, cursing between gasps.
“Put that down,” she said softly.
She fired. The shot struck the ground just shy of her target, kicking up dust and forcing him to dive for cover.
“Damn it,” she whispered, chambering another round. “Get yourself together, Marisol.” Her hands shook as she reloaded. She had to remember why she was doing any of this.
For her brother.
Dean Wilder and the Hollow Creek Riders were the reason he was dead. This was her chance. This was what she had been chasing with Blaze and Chato.
She might not have been down there to face the devil himself, but she knew she was helping Blaze complete the same job.
None of this could work if they didn’t trust each other.
Blaze was relying on her protection. She was relying on his accuracy.
Below, the survivors scrambled. Some were firing up toward the cliffs. Bullets whined past her position, chewing stone near her boots. Chips of granite stung her face.
There were more than ten men here. It was like they were fighting an army.
The only good thing was that these were bound to be the last of Wilder’s men. He had gathered them all in the same place.
It had been a mistake on his part.
“Found me already,” she muttered. She ducked behind a boulder, checked her cartridges, and reloaded slowly. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
She popped up and fired once. Then twice. Another Rider fell. The rest retreated toward the mine mouth, shouting for orders. They were too disorganized to push forward.
Then she heard a voice below. It was gruff and close.
“Up there!” somebody shouted. “I saw her! On the ridge!”
Her pulse spiked.
“Too close,” she breathed. She shifted position, crawling along the rocky shelf, her boots scraping grit. The man’s voice came again, louder now, echoing up through the canyon wall.
“You ain’t hittin’ nothin’ now, sweetheart,” he called. “Come on down, we’ll treat you real gentle.”
“Try it,” she muttered, setting her Hawken Plains rifle aside and drawing her Colt Paterson revolver.
She waited. Listened. The sound of boots crunching over stone grew nearer.
Then . . . silence.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Come on,” she whispered, her eyes darting between shadows.
A whisper of movement came from behind. It was a breath. A scrape of leather.
“Gotcha,” a voice rasped.
Marisol spun around. The man lunged, grabbing her shoulder. The rifle slid from her grasp, clattering down the rocks. He swung a knife, and she blocked it with her forearm, pain flaring as steel grazed her sleeve.
“Should’ve stayed in town,” the man snarled.
“Should’ve stayed in bed,” she shot back.
His face was familiar. He must have been at the stagecoach robbery. He had been there when her brother was murdered.
They called him Jeb.
She drove her elbow into his jaw, fury taking over her body. Jeb reeled. She ducked and swept his legs from under him. He hit the ground hard, kicking at her as he reached for the knife again. She fired once, point-blank. The crack echoed, deafening. Jeb went still.
She stood over him, breathing heavily as smoke rose from the barrel of her Colt.
“Five,” she said quietly.
She grabbed her rifle, slung it over her shoulder, and moved back toward her vantage point.
The mine mouth flickered again with muzzle flashes. She dropped to her belly and squinted into the distance.
Blaze was still inside. She could tell by the pattern—short, deliberate bursts, not the wild panic of the Riders. He was pinned, though.
“Hang in there,” she whispered. “You’re not dying in there.”
A Rider appeared again, trying to flank the mine. She adjusted her aim, squeezed, and he dropped. Another sprinted toward the gold cart. She hit him in the leg. He fell screaming, clutching his thigh.
“They just don’t stop,” she said, her voice barely audible.
She worked the rifle again, the rhythm of it calming her heartbeat.
“Think, Marisol. Think.”
Through the rising dust, she caught sight of a figure running toward the entrance—dark-haired and moving with purpose.
Chato Graycloud.
“Good man,” she said softly. “You hold that door.” She lined her sights on another Rider taking aim at him. “Not today,” she said.
The rifle cracked, and the man’s head snapped back. He toppled off the ledge and vanished into the ravine.
Then, she heard a voice coming from inside the mine.
“Don’t let him out!” he shouted.
Her chest tightened. Wilder. It had to be.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “He’s making his move.”
The last few Riders outside began to panic. Some were shouting to each other, while others were running toward the horses tied below. One mounted up, trying to spur away. She shot. The horse screamed, bolting riderless down the canyon.
Chambering another round, Marisol refused to take her eyes off the mine entrance.
There were so many bandits there. Where did Wilder find this many fools to fight his battles? In a way, it was kind of impressive.
One of them had spotted her again. A bullet tore past, smashing into the rock inches from her face. She gasped, her heart hammering.
“Persistent,” she breathed. “Let’s see how long you last.”
She slid sideways down the ridge, finding a new angle. The man was reloading, crouched behind a stump. She waited until he raised his rifle, then fired.
He didn’t get the chance to shoot.
She ducked again, rolling to the next boulder. Below, one of the last Riders yelled something she couldn’t make out. Maybe he was calling for help, maybe praying. She scanned the terrain. There was nothing but corpses, smoke, and the faint shimmer of sunlight over the dust.
Then she felt it. A tremor beneath her feet. A deep, echoing rumble from inside the mine.
Her stomach dropped.
“Blaze . . .” she whispered. “What are you doing in there?”
A flare of orange light burst from the tunnel. Gunfire or an explosion, she couldn’t tell. The noise shook the canyon. She steadied herself against the rock, her heart racing.
“Come on,” she said softly. “You’ve gotten out of worse.”
The remaining Riders began to pull back, one dragging another wounded man. They shouted orders she couldn’t fully hear, but one word came through clearly.
“Gold!”
They were trying to haul it away.
“Not a chance,” she muttered. She reloaded, took aim, and dropped the wounded one. The other bolted for cover, vanishing behind a rise.
The mine entrance flared again. Gunshots overlapped, echoing like thunder. She couldn’t see inside, couldn’t tell who was winning. Her throat tightened.
“Stay alive,” she whispered. “Just stay alive.”
The echo faded. Smoke rolled out from the tunnel mouth, curling upward. She squinted through the haze. Figures moved inside, shadows flickering against the firelight.
Then another shot rang out. This one was different. Closer.
She jerked around. One of the Riders she thought dead was crawling toward her from behind a rock with his pistol raised.
“Got you now,” he coughed.
“Not quite, you son of a bitch,” she said.
Her rifle was empty. She dropped it, drew her revolver again, and fired first. He toppled back, lifeless. The canyon went silent except for the distant echoes from the mine.
Marisol crouched, scanning every direction. Nothing moved now. Just the wind and the faint trickle of gravel down the slopes.
She exhaled, wiped her brow with the back of her hand, and reloaded in silence.
“Come on, Blaze,” she said. “What are you doing in there?”
She crawled forward along the ridge until she had a full view of the mine entrance again. The sun had crested the eastern rim now, bathing the canyon in a red-gold glow. Smoke drifted from the tunnel like breath from a wounded beast.
“End this, Blaze,” she said softly. “End it and come back to me.”