Anthony’s fingers tightened on the rope.
“You’ll tell me what I need to know,” he replied. “That’s enough. Everything else will follow.”
Tate sneered, but the smirk had a little less confidence in it now. “You think you can stop it?” he asked. “Stop the railroad, stop Vanburgh? You’re just one man. One angry ghost, all dressed up and pointing a Colt at me. And for what? Justice? Ha!”
Anthony glanced around the ridge as he guided them through a shallow canyon. The ground was uneven, and brush scratched at their clothes, but he moved with purpose. Every shadow, every rustle in the sage made his senses stretch.
“You’ll see,” Tate continued, voice louder now, trying to rattle him. “You’ll see Eagle Rock blown into splinters, just like your family, just like your precious tribe. Nothing left! Nothing!”
“Then we’ll see,” Anthony replied calmly. “And we’ll see who’s left standing when it’s done.”
The rope tightened in his grip. He wasn’t joking. He’d lived with fire and loss, and he had survived. One more night of careful walking, one more day of cunning, could give him leverage over this man. Over Vanburgh.
Tate stumbled again, and Anthony caught him by the arm, yanking him upright. “I said, walk steady.”
“You don’t frighten me, Hawk,” Tate spat. “Not really. You think you’re clever. You think your Colt and your rope can undo the world. The railroad’s coming. The explosions...the fire...it doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t care about them. Nothing does!”
That was when he saw movement in the distance.
He slowed, motioning for Tate to follow quietly. At first, he thought it might be scavengers or maybe bandits. But the shapes were moving carefully. It was almost like shadows melting through the night.
Anthony froze, crouching low. “Stop. Move quietly.”
“Who is that?” Tate asked.
Anthony’s eyes narrowed as he tried to pick out details. The figures moved like hunters, but the way they paused wasn’t typical outlaw movement. They were watching. Silent. Alert.
Anthony’s chest hitched when one figure stepped into a slant of moonlight. Recognition slammed into him.
“No . . . it can’t be.”
The next figure revealed a familiar face. Then another. He blinked, and his stomach turned with disbelief. Small Bear. One of the men who had survived. Alive. Against all odds. His tribe. Some of them, at least.
“You . . . survived?” Anthony whispered, almost to himself.
Small Bear nodded, grim and quiet. “Barely. The fire . . . the soldiers . . . Vanburgh’s men . . . we ran. Hidden. We hid.”
Anthony’s grip on the rope slackened slightly as he looked back at Tate. The man’s bravado faltered. The smirk was gone. Suddenly, this wasn’t about the Colt, or the rope, or even Anthony’s revenge. This was about them...the people who had endured.
The tribe stepped forward cautiously, surrounding them in the shadows. Children clung to their mothers. Women whispered urgent warnings. Men’s eyes were hard.
“Careful,” Anthony said. “Keep to the shadows. Quiet. There might be men following us.”
The tribe’s eyes fell on Lyle Tate, and recognition spread like fire through the shadows.
“By the spirits...” a man muttered. Anthony blinked. The voice was rough but familiar.
Black Wolf. It looked like he had aged a decade in the past few weeks. He was tall and strong, and his hands were steady on the war club slung across his back.
“Tate,” another said sharply, voice tight with anger. “He’s the one who rode with Vanburgh’s men. Helped them burn our homes. Killed our families.”
It was Red Hawk, one of the older warriors. His eyes glittered in the moonlight.
Tate swallowed hard. His bravado was gone. “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly.
“You dare lie to us now?” Black Wolf stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “After everything?”
Anthony’s hand tightened on the rope again, feeling the tension radiate from the tribe. “Easy,” he said, calm but firm. “Don’t act rash. He’ll talk if he wants to. He already knows you’ll hold him accountable.”
