“Hold up,” he said, pulling on Spirit’s reins.
Two chestnut mules pulled the wagon, their heads bobbing in slow rhythm. The tarp was stretched tight across the load, and the black “V” painted on the sideboard caught the last flare of sunlight.
Anthony watched the wagon a moment longer. He’d seen it earlier in town. It was the same wagon. Either that, or Vanburgh had plenty of vehicles that looked alike.
Bill had been on the seat then, same as now. Vanburgh’s man. The sort who never lingered unless told to.
The sight of the wagon here sent a prickle down Anthony’s spine.
“Come on, girl,” Anthony said.
He nudged the mare into motion, keeping to the tree line where the shadows lay thick. Curiosity was one thing, but the mark on that wagon wasn’t harmless freight. Vanburgh’s wagons rarely were.
The road dipped into a narrow cut. Anthony kept his distance, letting the creak of wagon wheels and the mules’ steady hooffalls guide him forward. The air here was cooler, but beneath it was something faint and acrid, like the ghost of old smoke.
When the wagon reached a fork, Bill guided the mules down the left-hand trail. Anthony knew that route. It led to a box canyon with only one way in or out. He’d hunted there before, and it wasn’t the sort of place one went without purpose.
That was reason enough to keep following.
He finally dismounted at the canyon’s mouth and hitched Spirit in a stand of juniper. He moved forward on foot.
The walls rose high on either side, swallowing the light until the floor lay in deepening shade. Somewhere ahead, the wagon rattled to a stop.
Anthony crouched behind a boulder, the black “V” on the sideboard still burned into his mind. Whatever Bill was doing here, it wasn’t for public eyes.
Anthony watched as two more men hopped down from under the tarp. They moved with the ease of men used to working together. No wasted words, no glances over the shoulder, except for quick checks of the canyon walls.
One of them was short and broad through the shoulders, his face hidden under the brim of a sweat-darkened hat. The other was leaner, with a long gait that carried him straight to the back of the wagon.
Bill stayed at the front, holding the mules steady. The other two worked at the load.
The tarp peeled back, revealing a row of squat wooden barrels lashed in place with rope. Anthony’s stomach tightened. He had seen barrels like that before—not on a freight wagon, but in mining camps where the rivers ran strange colors after a strike went bad.
The men heaved the first barrel down, set it on its side, and rolled it to the edge of the creek that trickled along the canyon floor. The plug came out with a hard jerk, and dark liquid sluiced into the water.
Anthony’s jaw clenched. Even from here, the stench reached him—a chemical tang sharp enough to cut through the pine and sage.
He shifted behind the boulder, his pulse ticking faster in his throat. This wasn’t ore waste. This was worse.
He pictured Abigail’s clinic, the children sick and pale, with their mothers sitting with tight, desperate eyes. He could still hear the way Abigail’s voice had gone low when she’d told him something in the water was wrong.
Vanburgh’s men were making it wrong.
Another barrel rolled. Another plug popped. More poison spilled into the creek. The black sheen spread quickly, the current carrying it downstream.
It was going straight toward the lowlands where Shoshone families camped in summer. Toward the places where ranchers watered stock. Toward every man, woman, and child who depended on this stretch of river.
They weren’t hiding their work because they didn’t think they had to. No one was supposed to be watching.
Anthony’s hands curled into fists against the grit beneath him. The canyon air felt tight. He had thought maybe Vanburgh was playing a slow game—buying influence, pushing people outone at a time. But this? This was a knife to the gut of the whole valley.
The large one straightened from the creek, rolling his shoulders like a man who’d done this job too many times before. He turned just enough for the light to cut across his face.
Anthony’s stomach dropped.
Lyle Tate.
He’d heard the name whispered in saloons, spoken in the low tone men used when they didn’t want to call trouble to themselves. A hired gun with a trail of bodies behind him.
