Prologue
Eagle Rock Basin, Colorado Territory, May 14, 1876
The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the rugged ridges and dusty plains of the San Juan Hills. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and dry earth. It carried the faint chirp of distant crickets and the rustle of wind through sagebrush.
But beneath those familiar sounds, something else tugged at Anthony Hawk’s senses. It was an unease that settled deep in his bones.
His white-spotted Appaloosa mare moved steadily beneath him. Her hooves thudded in rhythm with his quickening pulse. Two weeks ago, Anthony had left Silver Cross loaded with supplies and the last of his gold dust. Now, every mile closer to home tightened the knot in his chest.
It was like a warning whispered by the wilderness itself.
Ahead, a column of smoke darkened the horizon. Its thick black tendrils curled lazily against the clear blue sky. It wasn’t the faint, cozy smoke of a cooking fire or a distant campfire. This was different—dense, acrid, and heavy with menace.
“Come on, Spirit,” Anthony said. “Slow down here.” He tugged lightly on Spirit’s reins, slowing her to a cautious trot.
The mare snorted, nostrils flaring as she caught the unfamiliar scent. He squinted toward the ridge and the rising smoke. His breath hitched.
Smoke meant fire. And fire out here was seldom good news.
“Easy, girl,” Anthony said, urging Spirit forward again.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the land below. The ground dropped away into a small basin where his family’s homestead lay. What he saw stopped his heart cold.
A blackened ruin stark against the green of the surrounding pines. The cabin that had once been sturdy and welcoming was now little more than a skeleton of burnt timbers.
The barn’s frame sagged, partially collapsed, and the fences that once enclosed their animals were splintered and broken. Even the well was cracked and dry.
Anthony slid from the saddle, boots crunching over ash and shattered wood. The heat still radiated from the earth, pricklingthrough his thick-soled boots. The smell of burnt pine mingled with something sharper—metal and smoke and something else...a faint, bitter odor that made his stomach twist.
His voice came out rough, low, and desperate.
“Uncle?” he called out. “Aunt? Eli?”
Only the wind answered, whistling through the charred remains and carrying the distant call of a lone raven.
Anthony’s eyes swept the devastation, trained by years of survival to look beyond the obvious. Scorch marks clung to the remnants of the walls, but something else caught his attention.
A series of small holes pockmarked the blackened wood. Irregular and jagged.
He crouched beside the front doorway, running calloused fingers over the splintered surface. These weren’t arrow shafts or bullet holes made by old rifles. No, these were from more modern firearms—Colts or Winchesters, the kind used by men who meant business.
Spent shells littered the ground beneath the beams, half-buried in ash and dirt. They were .44 caliber rounds, maybe .45s. The casing edges were still sharp; the fire hadn’t consumed them all.
His eyes scanned the dirt further. Boot prints stamped deep and wide. Not moccasin marks. At least six or seven men, maybe more. And wagon wheels, narrow and freshly pressed into the soft soil. Tracks leading west, toward the narrow canyon road.
Anthony’s breath caught. This was no random blaze; it was a raid, a deliberate act of violence.
He followed the trail of boots and wheels, stepping carefully over the debris. Every step brought more questions.
Who had done this? Where were his family? Why leave the fire still burning but no bodies?
Near the hearth, something half-buried caught the fading light. Anthony knelt and swept ash aside with the back of his hand. His fingers closed around a cold, heavy piece of iron.
An iron railroad spike.
Blackened and rough, the spike was too deliberate to have been left by accident. The railroad hadn’t yet reached this far west; this was a message.
His eyes flicked to the surrounding hills, where ancient pines stood tall and silent. The Shoshone had taught him respect for these mountains and streams. His family’s claim near Eagle Rock Basin had always been sacred ground—gold and stone held in trust, untouched in many places.
