Chapter 36
The desert had not yet woken.
A gray stillness hung over the broken hills. Chato moved through it like smoke, each step placed with care among the rocks. His bow was slung across his back, but his hand rested on the knife at his belt. He trusted the blade more.
The air was sharp with the smell of old ore and dust. In the distance, the mine rose out of the earth like the mouth of some buried beast.
That was where Blaze had gone. The memory of their gunfire still rolled in Chato’s skull, dull and echoing. He had seen too much of this kind of fight. Too many men trying to dig gold out of graves.
He paused on the ridge above the mine, eyes narrowing against the faint light. The horizon burned pale behind him. Somewhere below, a horse whinnied. Somewhere else, a man cursed.
Chato breathed in deeply. The smell of gunpowder carried on the morning wind. His heartbeat slowed, steadying itself to the rhythm of what he knew was coming. He had followed Wilder’s trail for a while—long enough to know his voice, his men, and the way they laughed before they killed.
He crouched lower, fingers brushing the ground. The sand was still cool.
Then, from below came a sound. “You think you can hide behind them rocks forever, half-breed?” a voice shouted.
Chato’s eyes narrowed.
The Rider’s voice carried down the narrow slope toward the mine entrance. It was rough, mocking, and familiar all at once.
“Come out and finish what your people started,” the man called again. “Ain’t no spirits gonna save you this time.”
“You talk too much,” Chato said softly.
The wind whistled through the ravine. The dawn light hadn’t yet reached this far down, leaving the mine’s mouth wrapped in shadow. From inside came the rolling crack of gunfire. It was Blaze’s fight echoing through the tunnels.
Chato crouched behind a slab of stone, his knife glinting faintly in the dim light. His breath was calm, as always. He could feel the beat of his heart in his fingertips. The scent of iron and smoke hung thick.
The Rider stepped into view with a Winchester rifle in hand. His face was lean and pale under the dirt. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s.
“You remember me?” he said.
“Maybe,” Chato replied.
“Name’s Ike! You remember me, don’t you?” he asked. “You should. We took your kin down by the Brazos. Old man with the beads. Screamed like a woman when we lit the fire!”
Something in Chato’s face changed. His hand tightened around the hilt of his knife.
“You should’ve kept that to yourself,” he said.
Ike laughed. “Oh, I remember him fine. Took his scalp for luck . . . though it didn’t do me much good, seeing as it’s you down there now!”
“You killed my uncle,” Chato said, his voice quiet but shaking with heat underneath. “He was peaceful. He taught your people how to track water, and you burned him for it.”
Ike spat in the dust. “He was in the way. Just like you.”
Chato’s jaw locked. “Then I reckon I’ll show you what ‘in the way’ looks like.”
Ike raised his rifle. “You son of a—”
“Don’t,” Chato said.
The shot cracked the silence anyway. Dust sprayed over the rocks where Chato had been a moment before. He moved fast, slipping between boulders like smoke. The man cursed, fumbling to reload.
“You can’t hide forever!” Ike yelled.
“I ain’t hiding,” Chato said, his voice low behind him.
Ike spun. Too slow. The knife flashed once. Then twice. The Rider staggered back, blood spilling over his shirt.
“You,” he gasped. “You . . . devil—”
“Wrong spirit,” Chato said.
The man fell.
Chato wiped the blade clean against Ike’s coat and crouched over him. His jaw was tight, the lines in his face carved deep by years of anger.
“You should’ve stayed by the river,” he murmured.
From the tunnel mouth, another shout rang out.
“Ike! Ike, you dead?”
Chato’s head lifted. Two more Riders were rushing toward the mine, rifles in hand. He grabbed Ike’s carbine, checked the chamber, and ducked behind the rocks again.
“Get to the gold!” one shouted.
“The hell with the gold,” the other barked. “Kill whoever’s shootin’!”
Chato exhaled through his nose. “Come try.”
He waited. He watched the shadows shift as they drew closer. When the first Rider crossed into the open, Chato fired once. The man pitched forward, sliding face-first down the slope. The second dropped to a knee, firing blind toward the rocks.
“Show yourself!” the man yelled.
“Why?” Chato said. “You’re already dead.”
The Rider swung wide, trying to flank him. Chato tracked the movement in silence. When the man darted past the outcrop, Chato rose and fired again. The bullet took him clean in the chest.
He dropped beside his partner. Both sprawled in the dust.
For a moment, the canyon was still again. Just wind, stone, and distant thunder from within the mine.
Chato’s eyes moved toward the tunnel mouth. It glowed faintly orange from inside. The fight was still going. Blaze was in there somewhere, alone with Wilder’s wolves.
The Indian checked the carbine. Two rounds left. He slid behind a boulder near the entrance and waited.
Then came the voices again.
“Where’s Ike?”
“Dead, I reckon.”
“Then hold the damned entrance!”
Two Riders came running from the side slope, one carrying a revolver, the other clutching a satchel.
“Drop it,” Chato called.
They froze, startled.
“You!” one shouted. “You’re that Indian son of a—”
“Keep talking,” Chato said. “Makes you easier to find.”
The man fired. Sparks flew from the rock inches from Chato’s head.
Chato shifted position, rolled into the shadows, and fired back twice. The first shot missed. The second didn’t.
The man spun backward, screaming and clutching his arm. The other turned to run, but Chato was already moving. He sprang from cover, closed the distance in three strides, and slammed him into the cliff wall. The carbine fell.
“Where’s your boss?” Chato demanded.
“Inside! He’s . . . he’s with the gold!”
Chato pressed the knife against the man’s throat. “How many with him?”
“Six . . . no, maybe five! Please—”
“You brought more than that,” Chato said. “That means you lie.”
“No! Two went after the girl on the ridge! The rest are inside!”
Chato studied him, eyes hard as flint. Then he let go. The man slumped to the ground, coughing.
“Go,” Chato said. “Run.”
The man blinked, stunned.
“You ain’t gonna—”
“I said go.”
The bandit scrambled away, stumbling down the rocks until he vanished into the haze. The elements were going to take him anyway . . . if Marisol didn’t get her sights on him first.
Chato turned back to the entrance. Smoke billowed out now, thick and dark. The gunfire inside had slowed. It was no longer wild. Just sharp, deliberate exchanges.
“Patience,” he murmured. “Finish what you came for.”
He crouched and raised his bow, watching for movement. The canyon floor was littered with the fallen. The air stank of powder and death. Above, Marisol’s rifle cracked once more. She was farther away now, but still alive.
Then came the shuffling from the tunnel mouth.
A wounded Rider staggered out, bleeding from his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear.
“Help!” he gasped. “He’s killin’ everybody—”
Chato stepped forward, bow still in hand.
“Who?” he asked.
The man looked up, trembling. “Your friend. That bastard in the coat. He ain’t human.”
“He’s human,” Chato said quietly. “He’s just done holding back.”
The man tried to raise his gun. Chato shot him once through the chest with an arrow. The man fell face-first into the dirt.
Chato exhaled, lowering the weapon. His hands were steady.
He crouched beside the mine mouth, listening. Faint voices echoed within. He heard Blaze’s voice, sharp with anger, and another, colder one. It must have been Wilder.
His jaw tightened.
“You hear me, Blaze?” he whispered. “You finish this, and I’ll hold your door.”
He looked once more toward the cliffs and caught a glint of light from Marisol’s rifle barrel far above. She was watching. He gave the smallest nod.
Then he turned back to the tunnel and settled into position. He was a shadow against stone.
Every few seconds, a sound came from inside: the shuffle of boots, the sharp bark of another shot, a low murmur like men circling each other.
Chato’s fingers flexed around the bow grip. His heart thudded once, then steadied again. He was no stranger to waiting in places like this, between life and death.
He thought of Ike’s words, his uncle, all the blood and vengeance that never seemed to end.
He shifted his weight, feeling the ache in his shoulder from years of fights like this. The dawn light finally reached the canyon floor, spilling pale gold over the rocks and bodies.
“Almost over,” he said softly. “One more sunrise.”
Inside, a voice barked out. It belonged to Wilder. “You think you’re your father’s son, boy?” he asked.
Then Blaze’s voice answered, faint but firm. “I reckon I am.”
Chato’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t move.
“Then you’ll die like him,” Wilder snarled.
The Indian brought the bow closer to his shoulder, sights fixed on the tunnel mouth, waiting for whichever man came out first.
He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe.
The shadows inside shifted. The faint flicker of lamplight cast moving shapes on the rock walls. The sound of a revolver’s hammer being drawn back echoed faintly through the dust.
Chato stayed still, silent as stone.
“Patience,” he whispered. “Just like you taught him.”
The mine went quiet.