A rifle cracked so close she could feel it in her teeth. She looked out over the ridge. Through the haze of gunpowder and smoke, she saw Anthony diving for cover with his Colt in hand.
Arrows streaked from the southern slope where the Shoshone warriors had already scattered Vanburgh’s riders. The ground below was alive with screams, horses bucking, and men shouting orders over the chaos.
Her fingers tightened on the revolver.
She told herself she had to stay. That her job was too important to risk. She was the failsafe, the last line of survival.But her gut twisted. She couldn’t breathe for watching it unfold below her and not doing anything about it.
Abigail’s hand brushed against the medical satchel hanging from Tilly’s saddlebag.
She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Damn it all,” she muttered.
With a deliberate movement, she pulled the Colt Paterson free from its holster. The revolver was heavy and awkward in its five-chamber frame, but it had never failed her yet. She checked the cylinder, making sure each round was ready. Her thumb brushed the hammer.
Then she glanced back at Tilly. The mare was watching her, nostrils flared. Abigail reached up and stroked her mane.
“You wait for me,” she said softly. “Don’t you dare run off, you hear? You’re my way out of here.”
She gave the reins a final tug, tying them to a low, sturdy branch jutting from the rock face. The other horses shifted nervously, but Tilly stood firm. Loyal, stubborn, steady Tilly.
Abigail gave her one last pat and snatched the medical bag before turning away.
The revolver was cold in her hand as she slid down the ridge. The rocks tore at her pants, and dust clung to her palms, but she moved fast. She ducked behind a line of boulders.
The gunfire was louder here. Smoke hung thick in the basin, curling around the tents and wagons like some hungry spirit. Every breath burned her throat with powder. She coughed once but forced herself to keep moving.
From her position, she caught sight of Anthony. His dark hair was wild, his revolver bucking fire as he leaned out from behind a rock. His bow was slung across his back, ready for the next shot. Every movement was controlled.
She also saw Vanburgh. The man stood near the central tent with his face twisted in fury as he fired wildly toward the rocks. His voice carried even above the chaos. Abigail couldn’t make out all of it, but the venom in his words was enough.
Anthony shouted back, something sharp and cutting. Abigail’s stomach twisted. Their words were lost in the thunder of gunfire, but she could see the effect. Vanburgh’s face burned red, his every shot more desperate.
Abigail’s knuckles whitened around the revolver. She wanted to end him right there. To put a bullet through the arrogance that dripped from him. But he was too far, and her gun too imprecise.
Instead, she scanned for an opening.
Near the corral, two of Vanburgh’s men were reloading behind a wagon, preparing to fire on Black Wolf’s warriors as they advanced along the slope. Abigail dropped to one knee, steadied her breath, and raised the Colt.
The Paterson roared.
The first man cried out, clutching his side and collapsing against the wagon wheel. The second turned, and Abigail fired again. The shot went wide, but it made him duck, buying Black Wolf’s men the chance to surge forward.
One of the warriors loosed an arrow that struck the man square in the chest. He toppled backward into the dirt.
Abigail ducked behind her rock, heart hammering. The Colt felt heavier now, her hand tingling from the recoil. But she wasn’t frozen anymore. She was in it.
Another shout drew her attention. Red Hawk was pinned near the western flank, bullets splintering the wood around him. Abigail rose, fired twice, forcing one of the shooters to pull back. Red Hawk seized the moment, slipping out of his trap and cutting the man down with his own shot.
“Good!” Red Hawk shouted, his voice carrying across the chaos. “Keep them down!”
Abigail exhaled hard, tucking herself back behind cover. Smoke burned her eyes. Sweat slicked her brow.
The horses were still on the ridge. The deed was still safe. But Abigail’s place wasn’t up there anymore. It was here, in the fight, with the others.
She rose again, her revolver steady in her hand, eyes sharp on the next target.
Then she saw him—Red Hawk staggering back against a splintered wagon. His rifle slipped from his grasp, clattering to the dirt. His hand pressed to his side, crimson already seeping through his buckskin shirt. He was still upright, still snarling like a wolf cornered, but Abigail saw the way his knees buckled. He wouldn’t last.
Her chest tightened. She didn’t think. She moved.
