Boone’s head snapped up, rifle swinging toward the sound. He never got a shot off; Anthony dropped from the rock and slammed him to the dirt.
Without any hesitation, he drove the knife into Boone’s chest.
The man went limp without a sound.
“Boone?” Sykes called out.
Anthony didn’t answer. He slipped back into the dark. His breathing was slow.
“He’s up there!” Sykes barked. “Fan out!”
Two rifles opened up. Splinters of bark stung Anthony’s cheek. He counted their shots, moving low.
When the pause came, he ghosted fifty yards along the ridge. He was almost there. Freedom was close; he just had to put some distance between them.
Chapter 11
Anthony didn’t stop riding until the moon had slipped behind the western ridges, and the valley below had fallen into shadow. Every muscle ached from the relentless chase, and Spirit’s flanks glistened with sweat, but he knew he had to put as much distance between himself and the bounty hunters as possible.
The two remaining men wouldn’t give up easily, and any mistake now could be fatal.
He guided Spirit into a narrow gully choked with brush and low boulders, forcing her to pick her way carefully. The hoofprints they left would be hard to follow, but not impossible.
He doubled back along the ridgeline where the rocky ground offered cover, weaving through trees so the sound of his passage would be lost in the wind.
Hours passed in near silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the distant bark of a dog from a ranch far below.
Anthony allowed Spirit brief rests at hidden pockets of grass and shallow creek beds. He was always scanning the terrain for movement, always listening for the faintest sign that his pursuers were nearby.
By the first gray blush of dawn, he had put ten miles between himself and the last signs of pursuit. The hunters would have to track him by trail now, and the rough ground and dense trees had worked in his favor.
He slowed Spirit to let her drink from a small stream and considered his options.
He could keep moving until the sun climbed high, but there was no need to risk exhaustion or exposure. Better to find a shelter—a place to lay low, a place to think.
His eyes swept the horizon, settling on the familiar ridge where the remnants of his homestead stood: charred timber, burned earth, and collapsed walls. They were all visible even from a distance.
He gave Spirit a quiet command and spurred her toward the ridge. Every step brought him closer to the ruins and closer to answers, closer to the trace of whoever had torched his home. He dismounted once they reached the edge of the scorched yard, patting her neck as she nickered softly.
The wind shifted through the broken timbers of the homestead, rattling the charred beams like dry bones. Anthony dismounted and let Spirit nibble at the sparse grass along theedge of the scorched yard. His eyes scanned the ruin, noting what survived and what had been lost.
“Nothing lucky about this,” he said to himself, tipping his hat back. “Someone wanted it gone.”
The main cabin stood like a skeleton of itself. He took a cautious step forward, boots crunching over ash and broken floorboards.
“Oil. That’s what I smell,” he said softly, stooping to examine a scorched plank. The blackened wood gleamed faintly in the early light. “No lightning strike. Too controlled. Too fast.”
Perhaps he already knew all this. He understood it hadn’t been an accident. He knew Vanburgh had something to do with the death of his family.
But he needed more answers. Why? For what?
Anthony circled the cabin, leaning close to inspect the walls. He muttered under his breath as he worked, almost like talking out loud kept him sharper.
“Rags,” he said, pointing to a dark smear near the hearth. “Burned into the floorboards. Someone soaked these...petroleum. Deliberate.”
He kicked a small pile of ash aside, revealing a fragment of cloth in the corner. He bent and picked it up with one hand, holding it to the sunlight.
“Yeah,” he said. “Definitely not accidental.”
