“Some will fight,” Black Wolf said. “Not all. We cannot risk the remaining tribe. But a few will stand with you. And they will stand true.”
Anthony’s shoulders eased, and he bowed his head. “That’s all I ask.”
“It’s a start,” Brigg said as he exhaled.
Abigail placed her hand lightly on Anthony’s arm, her eyes shining with quiet pride. “You won them further than I thought possible,” she said.
As the council broke apart, Black Wolf stepped forward. He clasped Anthony’s forearm firmly, his grip strong as oak. His eyes were grave but not unkind. “Your mother would have been proud,” he said.
Anthony swallowed, the words striking deeper than he expected. “Then we’ll make her pride worth something,” he replied.
“It’s more than we had yesterday,” Black Wolf said. “And it’ll have to do.”
The crowd had begun to thin, voices fading back into the rhythm of camp life.
But Black Wolf lingered. He looked at Anthony in the way of men who had once shared the same fires, the same winters, and the same hunger.
“My family was lost in the fire,” Black Wolf said at last, his voice rough with grief he didn’t show to many.
“I know.” His own voice was quiet, stripped bare. “My aunt, my uncle, my cousin—they were taken too. The smoke carried them before I could do anything.”
Black Wolf clenched his jaw. The weight of their shared loss bound the silence between them. “Rumors spread in towns,” he said finally. “They say you brought this trouble. That your fists and your anger draw fire.”
Anthony’s eyes hardened. “Law is crooked. Bought and sold. They’ll say whatever Vanburgh pays them to say. But you know me, Black Wolf. Don’t believe the lies of men who never bled beside you.”
The older man studied him a moment longer, then placed a heavy hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I know what I saw when we were boys,” he said. “And I know the man standing before me now. Rumors are wind. Truth is fire. I’ll remember which burns brighter.”
Anthony bowed his head once before Black Wolf turned away to join the others.
Chapter 26
The trail wound away from the Shoshone camp in long bends, leading the trio to the edge of the forested ridges.
Anthony rode in front, his dark hat low over his eyes. Every movement of his head was deliberate as he scanned the woods. Brigg lagged behind, his tan Thoroughbred restless under his weight. He rode stiffly, his eyes jumping from branch to branch.
Abigail noticed it first and leaned forward in her saddle. “You look uneasy, Deputy,” she said.
Deputy Thomas Brigg shot her a sharp look, then shook his head. “Uneasy? I’m plain spooked, ma’am,” he replied. “Riding with Anthony Hawk through these woods, I might as well paint a target on my back. If anybody catches sight of me with him, Vanburgh won’t need a reason to hang me. He’ll call me a traitor. Law office will turn on me quicker than a rattler. I ain’t got a death wish.”
Anthony glanced over his shoulder, his gaze cool but steady. “Then turn back.”
“Didn’t say I would,” the deputy replied, shifting in his saddle again. “Just don’t like it. Word gets out, and I’ll have more than Vanburgh’s men breathing down my neck. The law’s hungry for a scapegoat. They’d be glad to make me one.”
Anthony said nothing. The silence pressed upon them until Abigail broke it with her calm voice.
“We’ve already walked into Vanburgh’s fire once,” she said. “You’re still here, Brigg. That means something.”
“Means my luck’s stretched thin,” he replied.
Anthony didn’t argue. He knew the deputy wasn’t wrong. He felt it too—the tightening noose and the way the land itself seemed to whisper with Vanburgh’s reach.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. No bird chatter. No rustle of squirrels. Only the steady creak of saddle leather and the faint rush of a hidden stream somewhere in the distance.
Anthony raised a hand, slowing Spirit to a walk. “Something feels off.”
“You feel it too?” the deputy asked, sliding his hand to the revolver in his gun belt.
Anthony nodded. His eyes roamed the shadows between the trunks.
