Chapter Eight Black Tooth Canyon
Black Tooth Canyon earned its name from a pillar of volcanic stone rising above the northern entrance.
It leaned over the trail like a dark broken fang.
Hank stopped the herd half a mile south and studied the walls through field glasses.
Red and black rock narrowed toward the center, high enough to hide rifles and steep enough to turn falling stone into a weapon.
The trail itself could hold six cattle abreast at the entrance, fewer beyond the first bend.
Every instinct told him to turn away.
Behind them, the river crossing waited beneath railroad guns. The southern route would cost nearly two weeks and every ranch pledged to the drive. Ahead lay danger he could at least see.
He lowered the glasses.
“We send riders through first,” Sam said from the wagon. His injured leg was bound, one boot cut away to accommodate the swelling. Pain had stripped color from his face, but not authority from his voice. “Both ridges.”
“Carter takes the west wall. Dunn’s boys take the east. No one enters until they signal clear.”
Sam looked toward Drew, who waited alone near Ghost. “And him?”
“He stays where I can see him.”
“You keep saying that like it is protection.”
“It is surveillance.”
“Is that what you call it when you wake at night to make sure he is breathing?”
Hank turned.
Sam adjusted the blanket over his leg. “Pain has made me reckless.”
“It has made you talkative.”
“That part was always free.”
Hank looked back at Drew.
The man appeared composed, but Hank had learned the small signs: the thumb rubbing across the black bandanna, the set of his shoulders, the way he kept checking the ridges rather than the herd. He believed the danger. Whatever else he had concealed, his fear for the crew was real.
Hank knew it.
That was the wound. He no longer doubted Drew cared. He doubted whether caring would be enough when the full truth arrived.
Scouts returned after an hour.
“No riders,” Will reported. “Found one old camp on the west ridge. Cold several days.”
“Tracks?”
“Wind took them.”
Hank ordered the herd forward.
The sound changed inside the canyon. Hooves struck stone and came back doubled. Cattle bawled at their own echoes. Dust rose but could not escape, turning the air amber beneath the narrow strip of sky.
Hank rode near the front.
Drew stayed twenty feet behind him.
Neither spoke.
At the first bend, the walls tightened. Broken rock lay along the trail. Hank raised a hand, slowing the herd.
A raven lifted from the east wall.
Drew looked up.
He saw the flash before the sound.
“Hank!”
He drove Ghost forward and hit Hank from the side.
The explosion split the canyon.
Stone erupted above them. Hank struck the ground beneath Drew’s weight. Ghost screamed and fled. Rock crashed across the trail, drowning every other sound.
Drew covered Hank’s head with his body.
Something struck his back.
The world went black with dust.
For several seconds, Hank could not hear. He felt pressure over him, stone against one leg, and a hot line across his shoulder. Then sound returned in fragments: cattle panicking, men shouting, the long grinding fall of the canyon wall.
“Drew.”
No answer.
Hank shoved upward.
Drew rolled beside him with a gasp. Blood darkened his hair near the temple, but his eyes opened.
“You are alive,” Drew said.
“So are you.”
Another rock struck nearby.
Hank pulled him toward the shelter of an overhang. They crawled as the last debris fell.
When the dust thinned, the trail behind them had vanished beneath a wall of stone.
The herd was on the southern side with the crew.
Hank and Drew were trapped beyond the slide.
Ghost was gone. Hank’s mare lay near the fallen rock, one foreleg bent at an impossible angle.
Hank approached her.
The animal tried to rise.
He drew his pistol.
Drew looked away when the shot came.
Afterward, Hank stood with one hand against the mare’s neck until the trembling stopped.
“We need to move,” Drew said softly. “If there was one charge, there may be another.”
Hank holstered the gun. “Your head.”
“Your shoulder.”
Blood had soaked through Hank’s coat.
He tried lifting his left arm and nearly went to his knees.
Drew caught him.
The contact brought their bodies together. Even through fear and pain, recognition traveled between them. Hank hated the involuntary heat of it, the way his body still responded to the man whose secrets had led them here.
Drew felt it too. His own arousal stirred beneath dusty trousers, not from the danger but from Hank’s closeness and the memory of every time holding him had meant safety.
Neither acknowledged it.
“Sit,” Drew said.
“We move.”
“You are bleeding through your coat.”
“I can walk.”
“You cannot lift your arm.”
“I only need my legs.”
Drew took his good wrist. “For once in your life, let someone help before you fall.”
Hank looked at their joined hands.
Then he allowed Drew to lead him beneath the overhang.
The wound came from a sharp piece of stone. It had cut across the top of Hank’s shoulder without lodging, deep enough to bleed freely but not expose bone.
Drew removed his coat and shirt.
Hank’s jaw tightened as fabric pulled away.
“Hold still.”
“Do not order me.”
“Then bleed to death out of spite.”
“I am not dying.”
“Excellent. Hold still while you continue not dying.”
Drew emptied a canteen over the wound. Hank swore.
“Apologies.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No. But my mother valued manners.”
Drew tore a long strip from the bottom of his own shirt. He folded part into a pad and pressed it against the cut.
Hank inhaled sharply.
Drew stood between his knees to wind the remaining cloth around his shoulder and chest. Each pass required him to reach across Hank’s bare back. Their faces came close. Hank’s uninjured hand settled instinctively at Drew’s waist.
The practical touch became something else.
Drew paused.
Dust covered them. Blood marked both their bodies. The canyon might contain armed men. Yet Hank’s thumb moved once across the skin above Drew’s waistband, and the familiar current awakened.
Drew looked down.
Hank’s desire had become plainly visible despite pain.
“You are injured,” Drew said.
“I noticed.”
“And angry.”
“Yes.”
“This is a poor time.”
“Then stop standing between my knees.”
Drew’s breath changed. “You could release me.”
Hank’s hand tightened.
Neither man moved.
The need between them held grief, terror, and the desperate proof of being alive. Drew bent slowly and kissed him.
Hank’s mouth opened beneath his.
The kiss was not hungry at first. It was trembling, almost reverent. Drew held Hank’s face, careful of his shoulder. Hank drew him closer with one arm until Drew’s knees pressed the rock on either side of his hips.
Their bodies responded with visible urgency.
Then Hank remembered the explosion.
He broke the kiss.
“Was this on the map?”
Drew went still.
“The ledge,” Hank said. “The narrow trail. Did your father know?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mark it?”
“No. The map already showed the canyon.”
“Did you tell them we were taking it?”
“No.”
“The telegram did.”
“The telegram was false.”
Hank looked at him. “Your name was real.”
Drew stepped back.
The unfinished bandage hung between them.
“Finish it,” Hank said.
Drew did.
His hands remained steady, but the warmth had gone from the touch. He tied the cloth, checked circulation in Hank’s arm, and put the ruined shirt aside.
They left the overhang.
The canyon ahead appeared empty. The slide had blocked the southern entrance, but a faint cattle call from the other side told them the crew remained alive.
Hank cupped his hands around his mouth. “Sam!”
The answer came distorted through stone.
“Hank!”
“We are alive!”
A cheer rose beyond the slide.
“Find the north route!” Hank shouted. “We will circle back!”
The effort reopened bleeding beneath the bandage.
Drew put Hank’s good arm across his shoulders.
They walked.
The canyon curved for nearly two miles. Once they found wire running along the upper wall, proof of the charge. Drew climbed partway to inspect it and discovered boot tracks leading north.
“Briggs?” Hank asked.
“Likely.”
“You keep recognizing his work.”
“I have seen it before.”
“Where?”
Drew descended.
After sunset.
No lies.
The sun stood high above the canyon, but the rule felt childish now.
They continued.
The trail rose, becoming rougher. Hank’s weight leaned more heavily against Drew. Sweat ran through the dust on his chest. Twice he stumbled. Each time Drew held him.
At a shallow cave near the northern opening, Hank finally stopped.
“Water,” he said.
Drew gave him the canteen.
Hank drank and passed it back.
They sat inside the shade. From there they could see open country beyond the canyon, empty to the horizon.
“If the crew clears the slide, they will take hours,” Drew said. “We can follow the ridge south once you rest.”
Hank looked at him. “Say your name.”
Drew’s fingers tightened around the canteen.
“I have given you enough time.”
The canyon had stripped away every escape.
Drew stood and walked to the mouth of the cave.
His father’s name had followed him his entire life. Doors opened when he spoke it. Men became polite. Women calculated. Employees lowered their eyes. It represented wealth, safety, and every chain he had once mistaken for privilege.
He had never feared saying it until Hank.
“My name is Andrew Whitaker.”
Behind him, silence.
Drew turned.
Hank’s face had emptied.
“Whitaker,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Warren Whitaker is your father.”
“Yes.”
“The man buying our bank notes.”
“Yes.”
“The man whose railroad is attacking this drive.”
“Yes.”
Each answer removed another piece of them.
Hank got to his feet too quickly. Pain bent him, but he refused Drew’s help.
“You came into my camp carrying his orders.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me put every ranch I own against this drive.”
“I did not know the extent until Mason Creek.”
“You slept with me before or after you learned?”
Drew absorbed the accusation. “Both.”
Hank’s face tightened as if struck.
“It was never part of the assignment,” Drew said. “None of what happened between us was for him.”
“How do I know?”