Anthony ducked back as his ears began to ring. Tate was cursing in every direction, spitting dust and trying to claw free of the rope.
“You bastard!” Tate shouted. “You don’t know who you’re crossing!”
Anthony shoved him flat with a boot to the chest. “Quiet.”
The other riders scrambled. Some were dismounting, some firing toward the thicket. Torchlight made every shadow dance and every movement uncertain. The wagons stood at a crooked halt, one horse already rearing against its harness.
Anthony pressed Tate down harder with his boot, gun steady in his hand.
“Tell your men to back off,” Anthony said. “Or you’re the first one I put in the ground.”
Tate snarled, but the cold press of the Colt’s barrel against his jaw made his bluster falter. He spat again, then shouted toward the wagons. “Hold! Don’t fire!”
The riders hesitated. Their rifles wavered. None of them wanted to be the man who pulled the trigger while Tate was staring down death.
Anthony crouched low, keeping Tate between himself and the rifles.
“You’re coming with me,” he said for Tate’s ears alone.
“The hell I am.” Tate bucked under him, straining against the rope. “You think you’ll drag me out like a hog to slaughter?” he asked. “You don’t know what Vanburgh’ll do to you!”
Anthony’s eyes were cold, the weight of memory behind them. “Vanburgh already did worse to me, Tate,” he replied. “You’re just payment on the debt.”
The men by the wagons shifted. One raised his rifle, and Anthony fired without hesitation. One sharp crack punched dirtan inch from the man’s boots. The rider jerked back and lowered his rifle.
Anthony dragged Tate upright, twisting the rope tighter and forcing him to stumble along toward the brush. “You’re my shield now,” he said. “Move.”
Tate’s face was red with rage, but the Colt never left his ribs.
Step by step, Anthony backed into the shadows, dragging Tate with him. The riders shouted, but none dared fire with their boss square in the way.
By the time Anthony reached the slope of the ridge again, the wagons were in chaos behind them. There were horses straining, men yelling, and lanterns bobbing wildly in the dark.
“Get back here, you son of a...” one voice shouted, but it was swallowed by the distance as Anthony hauled Tate up the slope.
They reached cover, both breathing ragged. Tate stumbled, tripped, and cursed, but the rope held him fast.
Anthony shoved him against the rocks, gun still steady. “That’s far enough.”
Tate glared back, sweat streaking his dirt-caked face. “You think you’ll get a word out of me?” he asked. “You’re crazy.”
“Oh, you’ll talk,” Anthony said quietly. “Not because you want to. Because you’ll see what happens when you don’t.”
Tate spat at his boots, but Anthony didn’t flinch. He tightened the rope once more, then shoved the man forward into the deeper dark of the ridge.
The convoy below was in uproar, but they’d be slow to follow. Tate was the prize, and Anthony had him.
He shoved Tate deeper into the shadows of the ridge, keeping the rope tight. The noise from the convoy grew faint behind them. None of it mattered now. Tate was here, bound and breathing. That was all Anthony needed.
He pressed him hard against a boulder. Tate grunted, his cheek scraping the stone. The man’s eyes burned in the half-dark, but there was something else there too—recognition.
“I knew it,” Tate spat, his voice rough. “Knew this day’d come sooner or later. You’re still mad about it. About your kin. About the way they fell.”
Anthony’s chest tightened.
Tate grinned despite the rope cutting into his arms. “Whole tribe, wasn’t it? Thought you could set down roots in this valley, thought you could hold it,” Tate continued. “But roots burn easy when the land’s marked for men like Vanburgh. For men like me.”
Anthony’s hand twitched on the Colt. He wanted to end it here. A single squeeze and Tate would be nothing but silence and dust. But silence wouldn’t give him the truth. Silence wouldn’t bring justice.
