He tugged on the reins and slowed slightly, letting the horse’s hooves skitter over loose stones. The valley spread beneath him like a painting, and somewhere below, Anthony Hawk was already in the fray. Brigg’s jaw tightened. The fight wasn’t his, yet he felt it clawing at him like a fire under his ribs.
His eyes swept the ridges as the gunfire rattled again. It was louder this time. Closer. He cursed under his breath. He was supposed to keep going, but the voice in his gut whispered something he couldn’t ignore. Something was wrong.
Instinctively, he slowed further and rose slightly in the stirrups. There, along a faint rise in the trail, movement caught his eye. Three figures dropped into the scrub ahead. The glint of metal. The unmistakable shapes of rifles.
Vanburgh’s men.
Brigg’s stomach twisted. He should have kept going. He should have ignored them and focused on the deeds, the law, the survival.
But he had trained for moments like this, and the sudden rush of danger triggered a clarity he had never experienced on a quiet day in the office. He dropped his voice into a low hiss.
“Figures,” he said.
The three men emerged fully, rifles leveled. One stepped forward, lips curling into a grin.
“Well, well, Brigg,” he chuckled. “Thought you could slip by without us noticing?”
Brigg’s fingers flexed on the satchel strap, feeling the weight of the deeds. His other hand went to the Colt on his hip. The revolver’s familiar heft grounded him. The horse shifted beneath him, sensing his tension.
“Easy for you to say, Vanburgh’s boys,” Brigg muttered under his breath. He had no time for negotiations.
Every instinct screamed fight.
The first man fired, a jagged crack that tore through the canyon air. Brigg ducked low, leaning into the horse and letting the bullet pass harmlessly over his shoulder.
The horse snorted and stumbled slightly, but Brigg gripped the reins, letting the animal pivot in a tight half-circle. He used the terrain as cover.
He drew the Colt in one smooth motion with his thumb over the hammer. The first man advanced, stepping over a low rock, thinking he had Brigg pinned.
Brigg’s world slowed, and every motion became deliberate. His thumb squeezed the hammer, firing twice in quick succession. The first man’s rifle clattered to the ground as he dropped, hands clenching the dirt in surprise and pain.
“Agh!” he screamed in pain.
The second man’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected Brigg to shoot so fast. Brigg ducked behind a boulder as the man fired again, bullets kicking dust over his horse’s hooves.
The deputy gritted his teeth and fired twice more. The second man toppled sideways, sprawling into the scrub. A muffled curse left his lips.
The third man hesitated. Brigg’s eyes caught the subtle twitch of the man’s finger on the trigger. He shifted, aiming for the shot, and instinctively rolled his wrist, letting the horse move into a slight dip in the trail.
The bullet tore past where his chest had been moments before.
Brigg rose slightly, his thumb compressing the hammer. He fired once, then again.
The man’s chest jerked, and he fell back, rifle clattering to the ground.
For a moment, the world was silent again. Dust swirled, curling around Brigg’s boots and the hooves of his horse. He exhaled, hearing the rasp of his own breathing.
Three men, dead. He counted them in his mind, checking for movement. No signs of life.
His hands shook, and adrenaline coursed through every vein. But his grip was steady. The satchel remained secure against his saddle.
The deeds were safe. He had survived.
But then, a low whistle carried across the ridge from below. The sound of chaos was already unfolding. Brigg froze. Shots rang out from the Eagle Rock ridge.
Hawk’s voice shouted orders. He couldn’t hear the exact words from such a distance.
The deputy’s horse shifted under him, sensing the tension. He leaned forward, resting his chest against the animal’s neck. His eyes scanned the slopes ahead.
