Night came slowly. The murmur of the saloon dulled with each passing hour, leaving only the creak of signboards in the breeze and the occasional rattle of a wagon wheel over loose boards in the street.
Anthony lay on the cot, staring at the dark ceiling. He was counting the ticks of the wall clock in the sheriff’s office.
Then he heard it—low voices outside.
He sat up. The sound came from the alley that ran between the jail and the livery. At first, it was just muffled words. But then they grew sharper, more distinct.
“Vanburgh says...” one voice said. The rest was swallowed by a gust.
Anthony moved to the bars, tilting his head toward the narrow window high in the cell wall. Boots scuffed on hard-packed dirt.
Another voice replied, “Not tonight. Too many eyes in town.”
Anthony’s pulse picked up. He pressed closer, straining to catch more.
“Hawk’s locked up, ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the first man said. “Vanburgh wants it handled before...” The rest faded again, but the tone was enough. These weren’t drunks spilling gossip. These were men with a job to do, and his name had just passed their lips.
The scrape of a match flared briefly against the wall outside, throwing a dim orange glow past the window bars. Smoke drifted in through the crack.
Anthony stayed still, hardly breathing.
His mind churned. Was this about the barrels? About Lyle Tate? Or was Vanburgh simply tying off a loose end?
Chapter 9
The hours crawled. Anthony sat on the cot with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on the floorboards. He was replaying the conversation he’d overheard in the alley.
Handled before...The rest of the sentence didn’t need to be spoken. He’d been in enough bad country to know how men like Vanburgh thought.
Somewhere in the dark, a dog barked once. The wind shifted, carrying the faint stink of manure into the cell. Silver Cross was settling into its shallow sleep.
Anthony shifted, testing the door. Still locked tight. The key was long gone in Muldoon’s pocket. His Colt Navy revolver was gone, too. Muldoon had taken it the moment he’d shoved Anthony inside.
No weapon, no allies, and now the weight of an unseen clock ticking down to something ugly.
The first sound was almost nothing. Just a whisper of boot leather against packed earth. Then came another, closer. Anthony turned toward the barred window, listening.
The voices were back. He couldn’t make out words this time. There was a brief murmur, then silence, followed by a scrape like metal on stone.
His skin prickled. He had heard that sound before—gunmetal brushing against a wall.
The next noise was louder. The soft groan of the back door to the sheriff’s office swinging open.
Anthony rose slowly, crossing to the bars that separated the cell block from the front office. The lamplight in the outer room was gone. Only the faint silver of moonlight spilled in from the street through the front window.
A shadow moved across that light. Tall. Broad shoulders.
Then, another figure slipped in behind him.
They didn’t speak. One of them held something long—rifle, maybe a shotgun. The other crouched near the desk. Anthony caught the brief flash of the desk drawer sliding open.
His Colt.
“Vanburgh says quiet,” the taller one whispered.
The man with the rifle chuckled under his breath. “Quiet as the grave.”
Anthony backed away from the bars, scanning the cell. Nothing in there could serve as a weapon except the cot frame, and that was bolted to the wall. He would have to be fast. Unpredictable. Make them come to him.
