Anthony stood slowly, the Winchester heavy in his grip. His voice carried.
“Brigg’s hurt,” he said. “He’s closer to the shack on the hill. I left him there when I went after Vanburgh.”
Abigail’s head snapped up, worry flashing in her eyes. “Brigg?”
“He turned back to fight when he should’ve ridden on,” Anthony replied. “Took a wound, but he’s alive. We need to get him down before he loses more blood.”
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with both relief and exhaustion. The ridge was theirs. Vanburgh was dead. His men were finished. But the cost was still being counted.
Anthony adjusted his grip on the Winchester, scanning the smoke-choked valley one last time.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s bring Brigg back.”
Chapter 40
Anthony moved quickly, forcing his legs to carry him back uphill even though every muscle ached.
The battle was done, but the ridge still smelled of blood and smoke. Shouts carried faintly from the western flank. Men were counting heads, calling for the wounded, and gathering the living from the fallen.
“Red Hawk,” Anthony called over his shoulder, steadying Abigail as she stumbled against loose stone. “Black Wolf. Get a headcount. Find out who we still have standing.”
Both Shoshone warriors nodded grimly, their eyes already scanning the valley. They knew what had to be done.
Anthony adjusted his grip on the Winchester he had gotten from Brigg and then glanced back at Abigail. She was pale, but her jaw was set firm. The Colt Paterson revolver still hung at her side.
“You’re with me, ma’am,” he told her. “Brigg’s up there. Hurt bad. I don’t know how long he’s got.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Then we’d better not waste a second.”
Together, they climbed the last stretch toward the shack. The hill was quieter now, but each gust of wind carried the metallic tang of blood. Anthony’s boots scraped against the rocks. His breathing was heavy, and every sense was still sharp from battle.
Abigail kept pace, clutching her medical bag tight against her chest.
When they rounded the final ridge, Anthony’s gut clenched.
Deputy Thomas Brigg was still there. He was slumped against a boulder, his shirt soaked dark with blood. His face was pale, and his lips were drawn tight. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of their approach.
“About time,” Brigg rasped, his voice dry as dust.
Anthony dropped to one knee beside him, setting the Winchester aside.
“You’re a stubborn fool,” he said, the relief in his voice undercut with anger. “You should’ve kept riding.”
Brigg tried for a grin, though it came out twisted with pain. “Yeah, well...I’ve never been much for orders.”
Abigail was already on her knees with the medical bag open. “Hold him still,” she said sharply. “This went deep.”
Anthony slid an arm behind Brigg’s shoulders, steadying him as Abigail assessed the damage.
“You’re crazy,” Anthony muttered under his breath. “You almost died out here for nothing.”
“Wasn’t for nothing,” Brigg said, chuckling. “Got three of Vanburgh’s men before they got me. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Abigail shot him a stern look, sweat streaking through the dirt on her brow. “It won’t mean a thing if you bleed out before noon,” she replied. “Hold still.”
Anthony tightened his grip on Brigg’s shoulder, feeling the man’s weight sag against him. The smell of blood was strong, coppery, and thick.
“Think you can patch him?” Anthony asked, his voice low but urgent.
