“You—” he started, his voice sharp with fury and gratitude all tangled together.
But Brigg just chambered another round, eyes never leaving Joel’s shadow.
“Later,” the deputy snapped. “We finish this first.”
Anthony’s grip tightened on his Colt. The fight wasn’t over. Joel was still out there, and Vanburgh’s men were still pouring lead across the ridge.
But for the first time since the battle began, Anthony felt the faintest flicker of something like relief.
He shifted, reloading his Colt with quick movements as Brigg’s boots crunched into place beside him. The deputy kept his Winchester trained on the shadows near the tent where Joel had vanished. Smoke drifted in choking waves across the ridge, carrying the stink of gunpowder and burning canvas.
“Joel won’t run,” Anthony muttered, eyes locked on the tent. “He’s too proud. He’ll circle, try to cut us off.”
Brigg nodded once, sweat rolling down his cheek. “Then we smoke him out.”
Anthony motioned to the left flank. Brigg crouched low with his rifle raised and moved that way as Anthony darted right. Their steps were quiet despite the battle raging around them. Itwas years of practice and instinct guiding their boots over stone and dirt.
The tent flapped once.
Anthony froze, breath tight in his chest.
Then Joel’s revolver cracked, the bullet tearing into the ground inches from Anthony’s hand. Anthony dove behind a crate, firing back blindly. Wood splintered, canvas ripped, but Joel’s laugh carried above the noise. It was harsh and cutting.
“You’ll have to do better, Hawk!” Joel shouted. “I’m not like the others. I don’t bleed easy!”
Brigg’s Winchester roared. The bullet punched through the tent wall, forcing Joel to stumble out into the open. Dust clung to his clothes, his revolver already snapping up for another shot.
Anthony fired first. Joel twisted, the bullet grazing his arm but not stopping him. He snarled and fired back. Anthony dropped low, the round grazing his hat and sending it spinning.
Deputy Brigg steadied his rifle, but Joel rolled behind a wagon, firing at both of them in quick succession. The shots forced them into cover again.
“He’s quick,” Brigg muttered.
“He’s desperate,” Anthony corrected. He pointed to the wagon. “We box him in. Left side, you push. I’ll draw his fire.”
Brigg didn’t argue. He adjusted his grip on the Winchester and moved to the left quickly.
Anthony inhaled once, then rose from behind his cover. His Colt bucked with each shot. Joel’s revolver barked back, the two men trading fire across a haze of smoke. Sparks flew as bullets bit into metal. Dirt sprayed into the air.
Joel shifted his aim to Anthony’s chest.
That was when Brigg fired.
The shot hit Joel square in the side, spinning him off balance. His revolver clattered to the dirt, but he staggered upright, blood seeping through his shirt.
Anthony moved in, closing the distance. Joel looked up, hatred burning in his eyes even as his legs trembled.
“You think killing me changes anything?” Joel rasped. “Vanburgh will grind you into dust.”
Anthony didn’t hesitate. He leveled the Colt at Joel’s chest and fired once.
Joel staggered back a step with eyes wide, then crumpled to the ground. His breath rattled once, then stopped.
Silence pressed in for a moment, broken only by the gunfire still raging farther down the ridge. Anthony exhaled hard, lowering his revolver. Brigg stood a few feet away, his eyes on Joel’s body.
“That’s done,” Anthony said, voice flat.
Brigg’s chest rose and fell heavily. He looked at Anthony, then jerked his chin toward the western flank.
