Anthony looked past him and into the haze where Vanburgh had slipped away during Tate’s distraction. The smoke was thicker now, glowing orange where fire licked at the tents.
Anthony’s chest tightened. They were running out of time. He squeezed Brigg’s shoulder once, hard. “Stay alive,” Anthony said. “That’s an order.”
Brigg smirked weakly through the blood. “Didn’t know you gave orders.”
Anthony stood, Tate’s knife still in his hand. His revolver was empty, his bow cracked, but he didn’t care. He had enough left to finish this.
“Wait—”
Anthony turned. Brigg was propped against the nearest boulder, his face pale but his eyes still sharp. He shoved the Winchester across the dirt toward him, blood smeared on the stock.
“You’re gonna need this more than me,” Brigg rasped.
Anthony hesitated, then bent to scoop it up. The rifle’s weight was solid and reassuring. He checked the chamber. There was half a magazine left. Enough.
Brigg coughed, a bitter laugh shaking out of him. “Don’t miss,” he said.
Anthony gave a short nod. “I won’t.”
Their eyes met for a second. No more words needed.
Then Anthony turned back toward the smoke, the Winchester firm in his grip, and pushed on into the fire where Vanburgh waited.
Chapter 39
Anthony tried to breathe steadily as he climbed up the hill. Every step was a battle against the recoil of panic and the searing burn of exertion.
He could see the occasional flash from the ridge. Black Wolf and Red Hawk were holding the western flank, and Abigail was patching wounds.
But up here, it was his fight alone.
He ducked behind a jagged boulder as a bullet whined past his ear, kicking up a spray of dirt. His breath came fast, and every muscle screamed to slow down and to pause. But the urgency drove him onward. He could feel the powder stores somewhere ahead, the faint copper tang in the air a warning that every second mattered.
Vanburgh was clever. Too clever. Anthony knew the rail baron wouldn’t simply wait to be cornered. No, he would use the chaos to his advantage, and the advantage here was the fuse.
One misstep, one hesitation, and the entire ridge could become a tomb.
Anthony slid behind another boulder, wiping sweat and grime from his eyes. Only the Winchester Brigg had thrust into his hands kept him from feeling entirely helpless.
He shifted, scanning every ridge and every tent. Somewhere ahead, a shack sat alone. It was a black silhouette against the sun-bleached rocks. Anthony’s gut clenched.
That must have been it. The source of Vanburgh’s nerve, the place he could strike a fuse and level the ridge in one cruel instant.
Anthony ran.
The hill was steep, and sweat stung his eyes as he ran. Bullets whined around him, spattering rock and dirt, but none connected. His pulse hammered in his ears as he dove behind a toppled crate.
The smell of gunpowder was thick here, mingled with the acrid tang of burning canvas from the tents below.
He spotted movement near the shack and froze.
Vanburgh. Anthony could see the rail baron’s gaunt face, a mask of fury and madness. His finger hovered over somethingsmall and gleaming. A wire. A crude switch. A fuse. Anthony’s stomach dropped.
The man’s eyes darted toward the ridge, toward the smoke where Anthony knew the others were still fighting. That was when he barked, voice sharp and almost unhinged.
“You think you’ve won, Hawk?” Vanburgh spat, stepping closer to the contraption. “One flick, one little push, and you’re all ash. Every last one of you. All the men, the women...the fools who thought they could stop me.”
Anthony’s hand tightened around the Winchester, muscles coiling. His mind raced.
