She shook her head slightly, though not in refusal. “That’s no den,” she said. “That’s a whole nest, and every one of those men carries teeth. We ride down blind, we don’t ride back out. But if we slip in unseen...”
“Then we see what cards he’s holding,” Anthony finished. His eyes had gone to the horizon again, the black line of the ridges cutting against the stars.
The fire spat once, and silence settled again. Abigail shifted closer, just enough that her shadow mingled with his across the dirt.
“You’ve carried this fight on your back since the day we met,” she said softly. “But it’s not yours alone anymore. The Shoshone, Brigg, me...we’re all tied in it now. You don’t have to bear it yourself.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched before his features softened. He looked at her across the fire.
“Maybe not, ma’am,” he admitted. “But if it all goes wrong, it won’t be you they hang. Vanburgh’s painted me the outlaw, the half-breed stirring trouble. He’ll call me the match that lit this whole valley. If someone’s got to shoulder the blame, I don’t mind carrying that cross.”
Abigail’s eyes flashed. She leaned toward him, her voice low and fierce.
“Don’t you dare talk like that,” she said. “I didn’t stay behind just to watch you throw your life away.”
The night seemed to pause. Only the fire cracked between them. Then Anthony let out a quiet chuckle, though it carried no real humor.
“You’re stubborn as a mule, ma’am,” he said.
“And twice as useful,” she shot back, a smile tugging faintly at her lips before it faded just as quickly.
He poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks snapping upward. “We ought to sleep,” he muttered, though he didn’t move to lie down.
“Can you?” Abigail asked.
Anthony looked up, his face half in shadow. “No,” he admitted.
Neither of them spoke after that. But the silence wasn’t restful. It was thick and crawling, as if the whole basin listened to their breathing. Abigail stared into the flames until her eyes burned, then finally stood.
“We won’t find sleep tonight. So why pretend?”
Anthony’s brow lifted slightly. “What’re you saying?”
“Let’s go see,” she said simply. “If Vanburgh’s camp is there and if his men are stringing the wires, if the powder’s already set...we need to know. I’d rather face it than sit here stewing in guesses.”
Anthony studied her for a long moment before standing as well, brushing dirt from his pants. He slung his bow across his chest. “You’ve got grit,” he said.
Her lips curved faintly, though her hands were tight around her jacket. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They stamped out the last of the fire and slipped into the dark.
The stars were sharp above them, cold and endless. The moon had dipped behind the mountains, leaving the valley floor in blackness so complete that every crunch of gravel beneath their boots felt deafening.
Anthony moved ahead, his eyes flicking to every shifting shadow. Abigail followed closely behind with her gun at the ready.
“Easy now,” Anthony whispered, raising a hand. “Camp should be just beyond the bend. You smell that?”
Abigail lifted her head and sniffed. “Sulfur,” she said. “Powder.”
“Dynamite,” Anthony muttered. “He’s wiring the whole canyon.”
They pressed forward, hugging the rocks until the land opened like a wound before them. Lanterns dotted the canyon floor below them in broken constellations. Men moved between them.
There were shadows carrying crates, hammering spikes, and dragging coils of wire up the canyon walls. Horses stamped and snorted in a row at the far edge, restless with the smell of powder.
Abigail crouched beside Anthony, her breath quick in the cold air. “There must be thirty men,” she whispered. “Maybe more.”
Anthony studied the sight with narrowed eyes. “And every one of them is working toward the same end. They’ll bury this valley under rock and call it progress.”
