Brigg didn’t wait for the rest. The Winchester exploded, flame leaping from the muzzle. Silas’s horse reared as the shot cracked past his leg. The world erupted all at once.
Gunfire, shouts, hooves pounding against rock.
Brigg kicked the stallion hard, veering toward the cover of a rock outcrop. Bullets sparked off stone as he dove from the saddle, rolling hard into the dust. His shoulder hit the ground roughly, but he came up with the rifle leveled.
Wesley fired wildly from horseback, his slug whining past Brigg’s ear. Brigg answered with a steady squeeze, and Wesley’s hat flew from his head as the bullet carved the brim clean. The outlaw cursed, ducking.
The others spread, flanking wide. Their rifles cracked in staggered rhythm. Dust spat up around Brigg’s boots. He pressed his back to stone with his heart hammering and his hands steady on the Winchester.
Silas’s voice rang out. “Pin him in! Don’t let him breathe!”
Brigg thumbed another cartridge, eyes cutting across the trail. One rider broke too close, and Brigg swung out, firing point-blank. The man tumbled from his saddle, body thudding hard into the dirt. His horse screamed and bolted.
Four left.
The air stank of powder, acrid and hot. Brigg levered the rifle again, brass gleaming in the sun.
“Come on, boys,” he muttered under his breath. “Step wrong for me.”
Wesley obliged. He rode forward, probably thinking himself clever. His pistol was snapping from the hip. Brigg dropped, feeling the slug bite rock above his head. He rose, getting his sight steady. His shot caught Wesley in the shoulder, spinning him out of the saddle. The outlaw clung, cursing like a wounded dog as blood darkened his shirt.
“Damn you, Brigg!” he howled.
“That’s deputy to you,” Brigg muttered, racking another round.
Two of the others dismounted with their rifles braced against the scrub. Their shots rang out, bullets shattering stone near Brigg’s head. Chips stung his cheek. He wiped blood with the back of his hand, grit mixing with sweat.
“He’s boxed!” Silas shouted over the gunfire. “Circle round and cut him down!”
Brigg’s eyes flicked quick. The cover wouldn’t hold. He dashed, sliding into the shadow of a fallen tree. Bullets chased him, punching splinters into the air. He jammed the rifle against the wood, firing blind to scatter them. The lever clacked, hot brass raining into the dirt.
One outlaw cried out, clutching his thigh. Brigg didn’t pause, chambering the next round.
The stallion whinnied in the chaos, still tethered nearby. Brigg spared a thought for the horse. Then, Silas’s shout yanked him back. “There! He’s running low!”
Brigg gritted his teeth. They were watching his shots and counting the rhythm. The Winchester’s magazine was nearly empty. He shoved fresh rounds in with fast hands, sweat slicking his brow.
Silas and another rider pressed closely, using the rocks for cover. Brigg steadied himself. His heart was slow despite the thunder around him. He tracked the shadow moving and waited, patient as a hunter. Then Silas’s hat peeked from cover, just a fraction too long.
Brigg fired.
The bullet punched stone, debris flying all over the place. Silas ducked, but Brigg’s second shot followed before he could blink. This one struck cleanly. The outlaw jerked back with a shout, his rifle clattering into the dust.
“Silas!” Wesley roared, pain twisting his voice.
But Brigg was already shifting, sights swinging to the last rider standing tall. The outlaw raised his revolver with wide eyes. He was too slow. Brigg’s shot slammed into his chest, knocking him flat into the dirt.
The canyon fell still, smoke drifting low. Horses pawed nervously, their breath harsh in the quiet.
Brigg rose from cover with his Winchester steady, scanning the field. Two bodies lay still. One outlaw groaned faintly in the dust, clutching his leg. Wesley hung limp in his saddle, blood dark on his shirt. Silas was gone from sight, but his rifle lay abandoned in the rocks.
Brigg’s chest heaved, the fight’s edge still sharp in his veins. He spat grit, eyes hard as he lowered the rifle.
“Should’ve stayed home, boys,” he muttered.
He reloaded slowly, each cartridge clicking firmly into place. His horse waited trembling but alive. He’d need him yet. The trail was still long, and Eagle Rock wasn’t getting farther away.
Brigg slung the Winchester, scanning once more before mounting. The papers in his saddlebags rustled faintly as the stallion shifted. It was proof enough to hang Vanburgh ten times over...if Brigg lived long enough to deliver it.
