“So, what now?” Abigail asked, shifting her gaze toward him. “We can’t just walk down there.”
“No,” Anthony said. “We get close enough to learn the layout. See where they’ve set their charges. If we know their hand, we’ll know where to cut.”
They slid along the slope carefully. A guard’s lantern swung past once, so close that Abigail could see the man’s beard bristle in the light. She held her breath until the glow drifted away. Anthony motioned her on, moving with the patience of a hunter.
At the canyon floor, they pressed against a wall of stone. Two workers tramped by, hauling a crate between them.
“Careful, damn you,” one hissed. “That box will take half the ridge if you drop it.”
“Soon, as Vanburgh gives the word,” the other grumbled, “we’ll light her up. Then it’s goodbye to Hawk and his Indian friends.”
Their laughter faded into the clamor of the camp.
Abigail’s eyes met Anthony’s in the dark, her breath sharp. “They’re ready for you,” she whispered.
“They think they are,” Anthony said. “But dynamite’s a fickle friend. Mishandle it, and it kills the one who struck the match.”
They crept deeper, ducking behind canvas-covered stacks. Every few yards, Anthony spotted bundles of dynamite wedged into crevices, their fuses snaking toward the wires hammered into the rock. He memorized each placement, each bundle, and each coil.
Abigail crouched by one such bundle, her hands hovering above the wires.
“They’re anchoring them at the base,” she whispered. “It’ll make the whole wall cave in. They’ll claim it was an accident.”
“Vanburgh’s lies always wear a suit,” Anthony replied.
They edged further until a raised platform came into view. A table stood there beneath twin lanterns with maps pinned flat and wires leading into a heavy detonator box. A tall man leaned over the table, his bowler hat shadowing sharp features.
Even from here, Anthony knew him.
“Vanburgh,” he breathed.
Abigail followed his gaze, her lips parting. “That’s him.”
The railroad tycoon stood clean while his men sweated in the dust, his eyes cutting over every task. His voice carried like a blade. Workers scrambled to obey.
“We could end it now,” Abigail said, leaning closer. “One shot.”
“Not here, ma’am,” Anthony replied, shaking his head. “Not with all these rifles around. We strike blind, we die for nothing. We need a way to gut his plan first.”
They lingered in the shadows, watching. Vanburgh pointed at the walls as men climbed with fuses slung across their shoulders. Others tested the wires, hammering connections into place.
Abigail’s hand brushed Anthony’s sleeve. “How long until they’re ready?”
“Not long,” he said. “Once Denver knows about the deeds, Vanburgh will want this canyon erased. He can’t risk the truth standing.”
“Then what do we do, Anthony?” Abigail asked, swallowing hard.
He looked at her, steady as stone. “We wait,” Anthony said. “Then we cut the wires, scatter the men, and strike when it counts. For now, we watch.”
They crouched there as hours stretched thin as wire. Lantern light threw long shadows across the walls. Every clang of hammer and scrape of metal set Abigail’s nerves on edge. Anthony stayed unflinching, marking every crate.
Finally, the camp began to settle. Vanburgh retreated to his tent as his guards paced into their posts. Anthony touched Abigail’s arm. “Time.”
They climbed back toward the ridgeline, retracing each careful step. When at last they reached the top and the sounds faded to murmurs below, Abigail let out a shaky breath.
“That was madness,” she whispered. “One slip and they’d have killed us.”
Anthony’s gaze stayed on the lanterns burning faintly in the canyon. “One slip and they’d have killed more than us,” he said. “It would all have been ash.”
