Now the fire was still warm beneath the ash. Whoever had come here hadn’t been gone long.
There was a sudden noise—soft but unmistakable. It made Anthony spin, and he drew his Colt 1851 Navy revolver from his holster with a snap. Spirit shifted uneasily at his side.
Three riders appeared from behind the ruins of the barn. They reined their horses to a halt, weapons at the ready but eyes wary. The tallest man had a weather-beaten face, scarred and lined like old leather. His smile was thin and cruel.
“Well, well,” the scarred rider said, his voice low and menacing. “Seems we missed a few.”
Anthony’s grip tightened. “You did this?”
The man laughed, spitting on the ground.
“Maybe we did,” he said. “Maybe we’re just making sure nobody snoops where they shouldn’t.”
“Too late for that,” Anthony said, steady despite the rage building in his chest.
The other two riders dismounted slowly, spreading out to flank him. Their hands hovered near their pistols and rifles. The smell of cheap whiskey and sweat rolled off them like a cloud.
“You got a smart mouth for a man alone,” the scarred one said. “Boss don’t like loose ends.”
Anthony’s mind raced, calculating odds. Three against one, no cover but the wreckage. He needed to act.
The first shot rang out, catching the nearest rider in the chest before he could raise his Winchester rifle. The man’s horse reared, throwing him hard to the ground.
Gunfire erupted in reply. Bullets splintered wood and kicked dust into the air.
He rolled behind a fallen beam, grit and ash raining down. His fingers found the Colt again, firing twice more. Another rider crumpled, his rifle clattering on the dirt.
The scarred man roared, charging like a bull. Anthony sidestepped, catching the man’s arm and twisting it. The revolver cracked harmlessly upward.
With a brutal shove and a hard elbow, Anthony drove the man back.
“Who sent you?” Anthony demanded, pointing his 1851 Colt at him.
Before the bandit could react, he slammed a knee into Anthony’s ribs and dove for his gun. The crack of a single shotended the fight. The man hit the ground, lifeless. Silence fell again.
Spirit snorted nervously beside him, stamping restless hooves.
Anthony holstered the Colt and stared westward, beyond the ruins. The tracks in the dirt led away from his home and straight toward a darker future.
His boots crunched over the ash as he picked his way past the fallen barn. The acrid smoke clawed at his throat. Every step felt heavier.
Something pale caught his eye in the shadows near the old apple tree, half-buried in soot. He froze.
Three bodies. Lying side by side.
His uncle’s broad shoulders were slumped unnaturally, his shirt front dark and stiff with blood. His aunt’s hair was matted and gray with ash. Her still hands were clasped around the small frame of Eli, who lay crumpled against her.
The boy’s eyes were closed, and his face was smudged with soot, as if he had simply fallen asleep. But the dark, jagged hole in his temple told the truth.
Anthony knelt hard, the impact rattling through his bones.
The breath tore from his chest in a soundless gasp. His hands shook as he touched his aunt’s shoulder, then his younger cousin’s hair. Still warm. They hadn’t been dead long.
A cold, hollow fury filled the space where grief should have been. Whoever had done this hadn’t just taken his home; they’d taken his blood.
He rose slowly, the weight of his Colt 1851 Navy heavy at his hip. His gaze drifted west, toward the canyon road where the wagon tracks led.
The killers thought they’d left no witnesses. They thought fire and fear would be enough to silence the truth.
