Anthony ran a last mental check.South slope—horses neutralized first. North and west—men pinned the camp, created the illusion of overwhelming numbers. Abigail—spare horses, documents, escape if needed.
He flexed his fingers around the revolver grip one more time. The familiar weight steadied him. He moved to the edge of the ridge, peering down at Vanburgh’s camp sprawled across the basin.
The valley was a chessboard, and every piece was in motion. He could feel the pulse of the ground beneath his boots. It was a low hum that matched the tightening coil of anticipation in his chest.
A soft wind ruffled the sage. The rising sun threw sharp shadows across the ridges. Anthony crouched low, with hisrevolver at his side. He breathed in, letting the tension sharpen his senses rather than overwhelm him.
Black Wolf’s hand rose slightly. It was a subtle gesture. The warriors understood. Every pair of eyes fixed on the camp below. Every finger on every trigger flexed. Anthony’s own hand tightened on the revolver again, checking the hammer, thumb brushing the cylinder.
Anthony shifted his weight, making sure the sightlines were clear. He noticed a guard pacing slightly too close to the powder crates—a careless step into danger. He made a mental note.
Everything had a solution. Every threat had a response.
Then, as if the canyon itself had agreed to begin, a single, mournful howl echoed across the ridges. It was a Coyote’s cry. Anthony stiffened.
His eyes flicked to Black Wolf. The signal.
The warriors tensed. Anthony’s own revolver felt heavier now, as if it bore the weight of the coming moments. His bowstring hummed faintly in the morning air, ready to release at the first sign of movement.
He exhaled once, feeling the ridge beneath his boots and the wind against his cheek. Anthony knew the first shot would ignite a chain that could not be stopped until the ridge ran red with chaos.
The second Coyote’s cry echoed sharply, cutting across the canyon like a blade.
Anthony’s teeth clenched. Fingers tightened on his revolver. He shifted slightly, adjusting for line of sight. Around him, every ally mirrored his readiness, every eye on the slope below.
And then, Anthony’s finger hovered over the trigger. The long, tense silence broke.
The shootout had begun.
Chapter 34
The narrow trail twisted through the scrub and rocks like a thin, gray vein running through the canyon. Deputy Thomas Brigg leaned over his horse’s neck, one hand flexing on the reins, the other close to the satchel containing the deeds.
Every clop of hooves echoed in his mind, each step of the animal a reminder of the distance he needed to put between himself and Eagle Rock. He forced himself to breathe evenly, counting each rotation of the stirrup underfoot.
He had told himself it was simple: ride straight, fast, and keep the originals safe. The judge needed them. The law needed them. And without them, everything Anthony and Abigail had risked would be meaningless.
Brigg had repeated the mantra so many times that it felt like iron etched into his skull. Keep the documents safe. Do not stop. Do not turn back.
But the canyon was quiet in a way that felt wrong. Too quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, leaving only thescrape of hooves on stone and the faint whistle of the morning air through scrub and boulders. Brigg’s gut tightened.
Then it came—a sharp shot, followed by another, and another. The sound carried through the canyon with an almost unnatural clarity. It ricocheted off stone and bounced across ridges.
He froze mid-thigh in the stirrups, ears straining.
Gunfire.
His heart slammed in his chest. He had known it was coming. He had rehearsed it in his mind, but the first real sound of it set his teeth on edge. It was chaotic and fragmented. The shots from below echoed through the rocks. The smoke must still have been low to the ground because the smell of gunpowder hadn’t reached him yet, but the sound alone was enough.
Brigg gritted his teeth and straightened.
“Damn it,” he muttered, one hand clenching the reins tighter. He had ridden hard to survive. That was the plan. That was the truth. Every word Anthony had said, every warning, every instruction.
Yet . . .
Something deep in his gut told him he was about to fail. Not Brigg the deputy, not Brigg the lawman, but Brigg the man. Brigg the one who had seen too much and carried too many people he’d failed.
He had a bad feeling. A gut that screamed Hawk’s name, Hawk’s life, Abigail’s safety.
