Abigail tied the last knot firmly. “There. It’ll hold for now. Don’t push harder than you have to.”
“Doc, this ride is all push,” Brigg said. He flexed his hand once, winced, then stilled.
Anthony leaned his bow against the tree, crouching low. “We’ll cover your ride out. We’ll draw eyes away from the eastern pass. You take the northern cut and don’t look back.”
Brigg met his gaze. “And when I’m gone?”
“We strike,” Anthony said.
Abigail’s breath caught, but she didn’t argue. She only looked at Anthony, her eyes steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Brigg glanced between them, then sighed. “Hell. Maybe the judge will make it. Maybe you’ll live long enough to hear his gavel. Either way, I’ll carry your words to him.”
Anthony gave the faintest nod. “That’s all we need.”
The cottonwoods rustled above them, the air sharp with dust and pine. The sun climbed slowly over the basin, dragging light across their worn faces.
Time pressed close. Every heartbeat carried them nearer to the storm.
Anthony leaned back against the tree with his bow balanced across his knees. His eyes were fixed on Brigg. He was tired, bleeding, and still too stubborn to quit. He had seen men like that before. Good men who pushed themselves beyond reason, who rode until the ground itself swallowed them.
Most of them never made it home. Brigg was tough, no doubt, but toughness had its limits.
If Vanburgh’s men caught him again, there was going to be no judge, no marshal, and certainly no law in Denver who would save Eagle Rock.
The weight of that truth coiled in his chest. He told Brigg they’d cover him, draw eyes away from the pass. But he knew the truth. The moment Brigg turned north, every rifle in Vanburgh’s pocket would be combing these ridges. It would be a miracle if the man reached Denver alive.
Yet, miracles were what they needed now.
Anthony’s gaze shifted to Abigail. She knelt still at Brigg’s side, her hands steady though her face was pale. There was something in the way she looked at Brigg. She wasn’t afraid of work or wounds. She wasn’t afraid of tomorrow, though she should have been.
That steadiness frightened Anthony more than panic ever could. Because she was tethering herself to him. To his fight and his choices. If he fell, she’d be dragged under, too.
He exhaled through his nose.
The land itself seemed to press closer. The ridges were no longer ridges. They were walls reminding him of the weight of tomorrow. He could almost see Vanburgh’s men crouched behind the rocks with their rifles at the ready. The air smelled of pine now, but by tomorrow it would be smoke and sulfur.
Then there were the Shoshone. He thought of Black Wolf’s eyes in the council firelight. Some of the young braves had stepped forward, pledging to ride. Not many. Enough to matter, maybe. But where were they now?
Would they come? Or did their courage end with their words?
He hated that doubt. He wanted to believe. But men had families. Tribes had seen too much fire already. Fear was heavier than bullets, and Vanburgh’s shadow stretched long.
If the Shoshone did not come, it would be him and Abigail against Vanburgh’s war chest. A canyon full of rifles and dynamite.
Anthony’s jaw clenched. He thought of what he had told Abigail about cutting off his head and letting the body scatter. He still believed it. Men like Vanburgh weren’t followed out of loyalty. They were followed out of fear and coin.
But that meant reaching him. That meant walking through powder trails and iron muzzles to strike at the heart of the beast.
Anthony closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Vanburgh’s smirk and his polished boots standing in Eagle Rock’s dust, his hand resting on ledgers that turned men into figures and land into numbers. He saw the canyon torn wide and the basin swallowed in fire.
No. He wouldn’t let it happen.
When his eyes opened again, the fire was nearly gone, and the coals were faint and red. Abigail looked across at him, catching his gaze for a moment longer than she should have. He saw the question in her eyes.
What about us?
He had no answer. Not tonight.
