“Deputy,” Anthony said at last.
“Hawk,” Brigg replied, his tone neither friendly nor hostile. His eyes studied Anthony, measuring him.
Anthony dipped his chin. “Reckon I owe you thanks.”
Brigg frowned. “Thanks?”
“For telling the lady here about Lyle Tate,” Anthony said. His gaze was steady, his voice carrying the grit of truth. “Word reached me soon enough. I found Tate. Found his convoy too.”
Brigg’s brow furrowed. “You did more than find him. Whole town’s been buzzing since word came back. They said Tate’s men were scattered. That the wagons never made it through the canyon. You do that?”
“I did,” Anthony replied. “Couldn’t let those supplies reach Vanburgh. Tate’s convoy was blood money, meant to feed his machine while the rest of this county starves.”
Brigg watched him. He rubbed his thumb against the worn edge of his badge. “And Tate himself?”
Anthony’s eyes hardened. “I gave him to the Shoshone.”
That caught Brigg still. The deputy’s face shifted, a flicker of surprise under the lamplight glow that reached them faintly from town.
“The Shoshone?” he asked. “After what happened to your camp?”
“Exactly because of it,” Anthony said. “Vanburgh sent his riders to burn their lodges. Slaughtered their families. Tate was there. He led the charge. So I gave him to the ones still breathing. What they do with him...that’s their justice.”
Brigg let out a slow breath, narrowing his eyes as he looked toward the dark horizon where the Shoshone camps might be. “And what do you reckon they’ll do to him?” he asked.
Anthony shrugged, though his face was stone. “Whatever their law demands,” he said. “Whatever their grief demands. It ain’t mine to answer for. I have other things to take care of.”
The deputy studied him, then glanced toward Abigail at the foot of the ridge. She didn’t flinch or look away. When Brigg turned back, his voice was quieter. “That’s a dangerous gift you gave them,” he said. “Might give Vanburgh more reason to cry for war.”
“Vanburgh don’t need reasons,” Anthony said. “He makes his own. Always has.”
The deputy was silent for a long moment. “So why am I here? Why risk sending her into town to fetch me?”
“Because you’re the only man wearing a badge in this county who hasn’t sold his soul to Vanburgh,” he replied.
“That’s a mighty bold claim,” the deputy said, narrowing his eyes.
“And true,” Anthony replied. “I sat in that courthouse. I watched the judge take his coin, plain as day. Watched the whole room play its part.”
Brigg’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t deny it. He scratched at the stubble along his jaw. “I heard about what happened in court,” he admitted. “Folks talk. But talk don’t make proof.”
Anthony’s voice sharpened. “Proof don’t matter in this county. Not when Vanburgh buys the judge, the sheriff, half the jurymen, and every gunman who’ll take a coin. I ain’t asking youto march into Denver and shout it from the rooftops. I’m asking if you’ll listen. If you’ll see what’s really coming.”
Brigg didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward town, then back. The silence stretched until Anthony felt the weight of it pressing down.
“What makes you think I ain’t just another leash-holder for Vanburgh?” the deputy asked. “You’re putting an awful lot of trust in a man you hardly know.”
“Because if you were his man, I’d already be dead,” Anthony replied. “You knew where to find me. You knew Abigail was tied to me. Yet you didn’t send word. That tells me you ain’t his creature. At least, not yet.”
Brigg’s mouth twitched. It was almost a smile. “You got a sharp tongue, Hawk.”
“I got more than a tongue,” he said. “I got stakes in this fight. Stakes I ain’t shared with anyone outside the lady standing down there.”
The deputy tilted his head. “What stakes?”
Anthony took a breath. He’d weighed this moment since the ride out. Trust was a currency more costly than gold in Vanburgh’s county. But without it, he and Abigail stood alone.
“I own Eagle Rock,” Anthony said, voice level. “Half of it. Other half belongs to Abigail.”
