Brigg licked his lips. He seemed nervous but eager, as though speaking the words might burn him if he held them in any longer.
“I don’t know much,” he admitted. “But last night I heard Muldoon talking with one of Vanburgh’s men. They mentioned Lyle Tate...said he’d be driving a supply convoy soon. North road, maybe toward the creek. I couldn’t catch everything, but it sounded like Vanburgh wanted Tate to handle it personally.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. Tate. She knew the man. He was one of Vanburgh’s bulldogs. Quick with his fists and slower with his wit. He wouldn’t be sent on a simple errand unless the cargo mattered.
“Supplies,” she murmured. “Or poison.”
Brigg’s eyes darted nervously to the street.
“Could be either,” he said. “All I know is Tate’s leading it. If Anthony’s anywhere near, he ought to steer clear...or find out what’s in those wagons before it’s too late.”
Abigail tightened her shawl, her thoughts racing. She couldn’t tell why Deputy Brigg thought she was so close to Anthony, but it did not matter.
Hawk had been right about the barrels. If Tate himself was escorting them, it meant Vanburgh’s game was already in motion.
“You did right to tell me, Deputy,” Abigail said. “But you mustn’t let anyone suspect you overheard. If Muldoon or Vanburgh so much as suspects—”
“I know,” Brigg cut in quickly, almost pleading. “I’ll keep my head down. Just make sure Hawk knows.”
Abigail nodded faintly, though the gesture carried the weight of a vow. Anthony needed this. He needed every scrap of warning she could bring him, and fast.
The school bell clanged somewhere down the street, and children started spilling into the yard with shouts and laughter. The sound jarred against the urgency twisting in her chest.
She looked at Brigg one last time.
“Go back,” she told him. “Act as you always do. I’ll see that this reaches him.”
Brigg swallowed and gave a jerky nod before retreating toward the sheriff’s office, shoulders hunched as though the weight of his secret might show on his back.
Abigail lingered a moment longer in the alley. Tate. A convoy. Supplies bound for the creek. None of it was proof yet, but it was enough. Enough to warn Anthony.
She straightened, adjusted her satchel, and stepped back into the bright churn of Silver Cross.
Chapter 14
Anthony sat in the half-light of the clinic. The walls smelled faintly of herbs, ink, and clean bandages. Abigail’s desk had papers stacked high, pencils rolling near the edge, and a ledger opened halfway as though she had meant to finish an entry and then thought better of it. The shutters were drawn, leaving the room caught in a quiet hush.
He leaned back on the cot with his boots resting on the floor. His arm ached where Abigail had stitched the gash, but that was a minor wound compared to the weight that pressed on his chest.
Vanburgh.
The name had grown heavier with every passing day. The man didn’t just command wealth. He commanded silence. A silence enforced by Sheriff Muldoon’s badge. Vanburgh didn’t swing a hammer or draw a pistol himself, but his hand could still strike as surely as any outlaw’s.
The law had been folded into his pocket and pressed flat like a scrap of paper. Anthony could feel it every time he set foot near Silver Cross. The way people lowered their eyes, and the way conversations stopped when he drew near.
The bounty was only part of it. That was the lure. What Vanburgh wanted was finality. A reckoning that left no witness and no story to unravel the truth about the creek and the barrels.
Anthony rubbed at his jaw, which was rough with stubble. He’d been many things but never a man with patience for politics.
Yet, if Vanburgh were to be brought down, politics was the only weapon sharper than his Colt. A jury. Witnesses. Evidence laid so plain even a bought judge would struggle to dismiss it.
However, the more Anthony considered the path forward, the narrower it looked. Abigail had been right when she’d said proof was needed. Hard proof. Proof meant exposure. Exposure meant risk. He could not afford to be caught again.
A sound jolted him from his thoughts. Footsteps.
They were quick, clicking across the wooden planks of the clinic porch. Then the door pushed open, spilling daylight into the dim room.
Abigail entered with her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, her breath slightly uneven as though she’d hurriedthe walk from town. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. She stood there for a moment.
