Through the branches, he caught sight of three riders spreading out. Their rifles were across their knees. Even at a distance, the silhouettes were unmistakable. Boone was riding high in the stirrups, Krell with his head hunched forward like a wolf, and Sykes turning in the saddle as he scanned the trees.
“Easy now, girl,” Anthony said to the horse.
The riders slowed at the fork where his trail had vanished.
Krell pointed toward the slope. “Tracks end here,” he said.
“That means he’s close,” Boone said, his head moving on a swivel.
Anthony’s fingers brushed the butt of his Colt Navy revolver. However, he did not want to make a lot of noise; it might draw unwanted attention.
Who knew who else was out here with the three bounty hunters?
That meant shooting his way out wasn’t an option. Not yet.
He stayed low and let them pass.
By midnight, the heat from the day had drained away, leaving the mountains cool and still. A thin haze from distant campfires clung low in the hollows.
Anthony led Spirit along a dry creek bed, then doubled back over a granite shelf. He couldn’t leave any signs on the stone. From there, he slipped into a gully choked with brush.
It felt good to walk after spending so long in the saddle, but Anthony couldn’t enjoy the peace for long.
The voices came again an hour later.
“He’s gotta be close. Horse can’t run forever.”
Anthony kept low, slipping through the gully brush. He was careful not to let a twig snap underfoot. A flicker of movement gave him away. It was a branch shifting as he passed.
“There!” Sykes shouted, spurring toward the spot.
Anthony was already moving the other way, weaving through the brush. He scrambled up the far side of the gully and slid behind a boulder.
Below, the riders crashed through the thicket.
“See him?” Sykes asked.
“Nothing,” Boone replied. “Damn echo in here.”
Anthony picked up a loose stone and hurled it down the slope. It clattered hard against the creek bed.
The hunters spurred toward the sound.
Anthony took the moment to slip away again, cresting a rise that led to an old logging road.
By the time he found the half-rotten hunter’s shack on the ridge, the night was deep and still. The roof sagged, and one shutter banged softly in the wind. But it would do for shelter.
He got Spirit into the lean-to and stripped the saddle.
“Rest now,” he said, patting the mare on the neck. “Rest while you can.”
A voice carried on the breeze. It was closer than it should have been. “You check the ridgeline? Cabin’s just ahead.”
Anthony swore under his breath. They were closer than he had thought.
No time to run.
He slipped to the far side of the cabin and grabbed the knife from his gun belt. It was the only weapon he felt comfortable enough to use.
