Anthony spotted Sheriff Muldoon just as the man stepped out of the saloon, adjusting his hat and glancing up the street.
“Sheriff,” Anthony said, his voice low but edged with purpose.
“Morning, Hawk,” he said, refusing to stop moving. He was already walking toward the far end of the street. “Got business to see to.”
“So do I,” Anthony said, falling into step beside him.
The sheriff didn’t answer, weaving past a wagonload of crates and exchanging curt nods with townsfolk along the way.They walked the length of the main street, boots thudding on the packed dirt.
Anthony’s patience thinned with each step, but he kept pace, studying the set of Muldoon’s jaw. The sheriff avoided looking at him directly.
By the time they reached his office, the sun had set. Muldoon pushed open the creaking door and went inside without invitation.
Anthony followed. The familiar smell of leather, tobacco, and old wood filled his nostrils. The townsfolk still watched from doorways and windows, but Anthony could feel their unease.
There was something else, too—a wary distance that hadn’t been there before.
Sheriff Muldoon settled behind his desk, the chair groaning under his weight. Some deputies were in the building too, though they seemed far too distracted with something else.
The sheriff’s eyes finally met Anthony’s.
“All right,” he said. “What’s so pressing?”
Anthony stepped forward, his voice quiet but steady.
“The fire,” Anthony replied. He paused, eyes locked on the sheriff. “My family was there, Muldoon. They’re dead.”
Muldoon’s brows lifted slightly. A flicker of surprise quickly smoothed over. His hand twitched near his Colt Paterson revolver, but his voice stayed flat.
“I knew about the fire, Hawk,” he said. “I didn’t hear about any...bodies. That’s unfortunate, but not uncommon these days. Hard winters, dry timber. Could’ve been lightning.”
Anthony’s laugh was bitter. “Lightning doesn’t leave bullet holes,” he said. “You know who did this.”
The sheriff’s face darkened, though not with grief. “We’re all doing our best to keep the peace, Hawk,” he replied. “The Indian raids have been troubling folks lately.”
“Don’t call it an Indian raid,” Anthony’s voice rose, sharp as a whip. “You and I both know it wasn’t them.”
The room grew silent. The few deputies standing nearby stopped their conversation and fixed their eyes on Anthony. Muldoon stood, looming over the desk.
“You’re stirring trouble,” the sheriff said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’d best be careful.”
“I’m here for the truth,” Anthony said, meeting his gaze steadily. “You either tell it, or I’ll find it myself.”
Muldoon’s hand twitched toward his revolver, but a voice cut through the tension.
“Sheriff, maybe we should let the man speak.”
A tall deputy stepped forward, eyes sharp and clear. Thomas Brigg was young but steady. He was the kind of man who hadn’t been worn down by the town’s politics yet.
Muldoon hesitated but sank back into his chair with a grunt. “Fine,” he said. “Speak your piece, Hawk. But watch yourself.”
Anthony leaned forward, planting both hands on the desk. “There were bullet holes in the cabin walls, Muldoon,” he said. “Everywhere. Fresh casings still in the ash. My family was shot. Clean shots to the chest and head. Not scalped. Not taken for ransom. Shot dead where they stood.”
The deputies shifted uneasily, exchanging glances.
“And there were tracks,” Anthony went on, his voice steady but dangerous. “Boot prints, wagon wheels...heading west. Not toward the mountains. Not toward any Indian camp. Straight toward the railroad’s road crew.”
Muldoon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw working. “You can believe what you want, Hawk,” he said. “But we’ve had Indian trouble for months. Folks know they’ll steal stock, burn homes—”
