Chapter 37
Anthony ducked behind the splintered edge of a wagon, chest heaving as smoke poured over the ridge. The air was thick with powder. It was the kind that burned one’s throat raw and turned tongue to ash. Every crack of rifle fire shook the ground, and every scream of a horse echoed like thunder rolling through the canyon.
He spat dust and blood out of his mouth and leaned out, Colt Navy revolver raised.
That’s when he saw them.
Joel. Big-shouldered with his dark hair tied back and his jaw lined with days of grit. The Smith & Wesson gleamed in his hand. He was Vanburgh’s cold shadow, and his eyes burned with the kind of focus Anthony had only seen in men who’d killed for coin more than conscience.
Beside him, Max lumbered into view. His red beard was wild, and his teeth bared in a grin too wide. The man cradled a double-barreled shotgun like it was an extension of his own soul.Each barrel was as dark as a coffin mouth, promising ruin at close range.
Anthony’s stomach clenched. Together, they were wolves cornering him: Joel, the calculating one; Max, the reckless beast.
Anthony fired.
Joel twisted aside, the bullet sparking against the iron rim of a wagon wheel. Max answered with a roar, both barrels booming.
The air split as buckshot slammed into the wagon, tearing wood into flying splinters. Anthony hit the dirt, rolling hard as shards sliced his arm. His Colt slipped from his grasp, skidding across the ground.
“Got him!” Max bellowed, smoke curling from the shotgun’s mouth.
Anthony scrambled behind a rock, teeth gritted. His Colt was out of reach, and Joel was advancing with steady steps, revolver poised.
“You’ve been a thorn in Vanburgh’s side for too damn long, Hawk,” Joel called, his voice even and controlled. “Time to pluck it out.”
Anthony slid his bow from his back and notched an arrow. He peeked and let one fly. The arrow shattered against a crate, scattering dust.
Max roared again, fumbling shells into his shotgun.
Anthony’s pulse hammered. He was pinned. Joel was closing the gap on the left, and Max was waiting on the right with that shotgun ready to tear him in half.
He reached for his quiver, but his fingers brushed empty air. Just three arrows left. Not enough.
Joel’s boots crunched closer. “Always knew you weren’t untouchable,” Joel said, his voice low now. “All it takes is patience.”
Anthony clenched his jaw, muscles screaming. He could hear Max’s laugh. It was a booming, ugly sound. He cocked the shotgun again.
“Say goodbye, mountain rat!” Max hollered, stepping wide with his barrels glinting.
Anthony tensed, ready to move.
A gunshot cracked from the ridge. Sharp. Clean.
Max jerked, the grin wiped off his face as his shotgun fired high, buckshot tearing harmlessly into the sky. His body lurched backward, blood blooming across his shoulder.
Anthony blinked, stunned for half a second.
There, striding down from the northern rocks with smoke still rising from his Winchester, was Deputy Thomas Brigg. His hat was tilted low, and his face was smeared with sweat and dust. But his eyes burned with a defiance Anthony hadn’t expected to see again.
“Brigg?” Anthony muttered under his breath.
He was supposed to be gone, riding north with the deeds, clear of this slaughter. Yet here he was, with his rifle at the ready and jaw set like stone.
Joel cursed, ducking behind cover as Brigg fired again. The shot clipped his revolver, knocking it from his hand. Joel snarled, retreating behind a tent flap. His advantage was broken.
Max groaned, fumbling for his shotgun with his uninjured arm. Anthony lunged, snatching his Colt from the dirt, and fired twice. The first round shattered Max’s knee; the second slammed into his chest. The big man toppled with a strangled cry, shotgun falling useless to the ground.
Anthony turned sharply with his revolver leveled, eyes still burning with disbelief as they landed on Brigg.
