Justice.That word had burned in him ever since the day he came back and saw the black smoke. Ever since gunfire cracked and killed his family. He had lived with those echoes, carried them like stones in his chest. Every outlaw who laughed, every lawman who turned away, only made the stones heavier.
“I’m not surprised you dragged me down,” Tate said. “You’ve been waiting for it. Carrying all that hate like a sack on your back. But you won’t get a word out of me. You hear? Not one.”
Anthony’s breath grew sharp in his throat. His hand came up before he knew it. His fist crashed into Tate’s jaw.
The man’s head snapped sideways, blood spraying from his lip. He laughed even through the pain. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Tate asked. “You don’t want my tongue...you just want my blood. Same as the rest of us.”
Anthony’s knuckles throbbed, but the sting was nothing compared to the fire climbing through him. He wanted to hit him again. Again and again until the smirk broke and the words turned to begging.
But he forced himself still. His hand shook as he lowered it.
“You’ll talk,” Anthony growled, his voice low and tight. “Not tonight, maybe. Not tomorrow. But you’ll talk. Because the truth’s in you, and I’ll rip it out if I have to.”
Tate spat blood at the dirt. “The truth?” he replied. “You think there’s truth here? The truth is you lost. Your people lost. Vanburgh won. That’s the way of things. The strong take. The weak bury their dead.”
The words cut deeper than the punch.
Anthony looked at him and at the swollen lip. He thought of his aunt’s songs, of his uncle who taught him to read the wind, of his cousin who had run laughing by the creek. All gone now. Their voices taken, their homes burned, their bones scattered in shallow graves.
And here stood one of the men who had helped it happen, daring to grin, daring to speak as if it were nothing.
Anthony leaned close, pressing the Colt against Tate’s chest. “You think I’m weak?” Anthony asked. “You think they’re gone without memory? No. They live in me. Every step I take. You’ll carry them too before I’m finished. You’ll carry their weight with me.”
For once, Tate’s eyes flickered. Not fear, but something else. Unease.
Anthony saw it and held it. He holstered the Colt, then tightened the rope around Tate’s arms until the man hissed.
“You’ll walk with me now,” Anthony said. “You’ll walk, and you’ll answer. And if you don’t, then maybe you’ll learn what real losing feels like.”
He shoved Tate forward into the dark, his own anger burning steady.
Justice wasn’t here yet, but it was closer.
Chapter 16
Anthony led Tate down the ridge, keeping the rope firm but careful. The night pressed around them. It was quiet except for the whisper of wind through sage. Tate’s breaths came unevenly, but he laughed.
“You think you’ve got me?” Tate spat. “One rope, one Colt, and you think you’re justice?”
Anthony said nothing. He didn’t need to argue. His jaw tightened as he focused on the path ahead.
“You’re still mad about it, huh?” Tate sneered. “Your family, your tribe...gone. Thought you could stop it? Thought you could get revenge?”
The ridge fell away behind them, and the road curled downward into shadows where the convoy had halted. The clatter of horses and shouts still rang faintly in the distance, but Anthony ignored it.
Spirit had bolted in fright when the gunfire started. She had gone careening down the hill, disappearing into the darkness. Anthony didn’t chase her. The animal would find its way back eventually.
“You’re slow,” Tate said, stumbling against the rope. “You move like a tired mule. Maybe the rage doesn’t suit you, Hawk. Maybe it’s holding you back.”
Anthony didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He concentrated on the path, where roots and rocks were hidden in the shadows. Each one of his steps was deliberate. The night was his ally. It hid them from any wandering eyes.
“Oh, don’t just ignore me,” Tate said, lips curling. “You’re still angry. Still carrying that weight, aren’t you? Your family...your tribe...gone like smoke in the wind.”
The old, bitter ache twisted in his chest. He could imagine the flash of fire, hear the screams, and smell the black smoke. Tate had been a part of it, or close enough to know who had fallen, who had screamed.
“I’m not here for your mouth,” Anthony said finally, his voice low and sharp. “I’m here for the truth.”
Tate laughed, ragged and hollow. “The truth? Ha! The truth won’t matter,” he said. “You think dragging me along, tying me up, will make the world bend to your sense of right? Vanburgh’s rail is coming. Eagle Rock will be gone in days. Just days. And there won’t be a soul left to say otherwise.”
