They made their way down the street, the crowd parting in uneasy silence. Anthony could feel the townsfolk’s judgmental stares drilling into his back. To them, the Shoshone warriors were still enemies, no matter the battle they’d just fought side by side.
But no one dared to speak. Not when Anthony Hawk’s hand rested so casually near the butt of his revolver.
At the undertaker’s door, Anthony dismounted and helped Brigg down, grunting at the dead weight of the man. Brigg hissed through his teeth but refused to cry out. Abigail hurried ahead, banging on the door until the undertaker himself cracked it open.
“Miss Abigail?” he asked, surprise thick in his tone. “This ain’t a social hour.”
“We need your table,” Abigail said without ceremony. “Now.”
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Brigg half-collapsing against Anthony. He glanced past them to the Shoshone warriors and swallowed hard. “This ain’t proper—”
Anthony’s glare cut him short. “The table. Now.”
The undertaker stepped aside without another word.
Inside, the air was cooler and heavy with the faint scent of embalming fluids and wood polish. Abigail cleared a space on the broad oak table, pushing aside a set of polished tools. Anthony and Red Hawk eased Brigg onto the surface, where he lay flat with a groan.
“Thought I’d end up here one way or another,” Brigg murmured. “Didn’t think I’d still be breathing.”
“Quiet,” Abigail said, snapping open her medical bag. “You’ll need your strength for this.”
Brigg smirked weakly. “Don’t suppose you’ve got whiskey in there?”
Anthony leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the windows as if expecting Vanburgh’s ghost to come riding back into town.
“Drink after,” he said. “If you live.”
Abigail shot him a sharp glance. “That’s not helpful.”
“Not supposed to be, ma’am,” Anthony said, shrugging one shoulder.
She ignored him, rolling up her sleeves and pulling out the needle and thread once more. Her hands were steady despite the exhaustion etched into her face. The undertaker hovered nearby, wringing his hands until Black Wolf stepped forward, silent and towering.
One look was all it took for the man to retreat to the far corner, wisely deciding silence was his safest choice.
Brigg tried to crane his head toward Anthony. “Maybe this was worth it.”
Abigail pressed her fingers against the edge of his bandage. “Worth it if you live,” she said. “Now hold still. This will hurt.”
“Ma’am, everything hurts already,” Brigg muttered. “Do your worst.”
Anthony moved closer, resting a firm hand on Brigg’s shoulder as Abigail began her work. She had to undo her old, hurried stitches and replace them with new ones.
The needle flashed, thread pulling taut through torn flesh. Brigg clenched his jaw, every muscle straining, but he didn’t cry out. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hands gripped the table’s edge until his knuckles turned white.
“You ever think,” Brigg rasped between clenched teeth, “that maybe we picked the wrong side of trouble?”
Anthony raised a brow. “Not once.”
“Figures,” Brigg said, hissing as the needle bit again. “You’re too damn stubborn to doubt yourself.”
Anthony’s mouth curved into a grim smile. “Takes one to know one.”
Abigail worked quickly, her concentration absolute. The room was silent except for Brigg’s ragged breathing and the soft scrape of her tools. Red Hawk and Black Wolf stood near the door, their eyes sharp as hawks, watching anyone who dared pass in the street.
When Abigail finally tied off the last stitch and bound the wound with clean cloth, she sat back, her face pale with effort.
“That will hold for now,” she said softly. “But you’re not out of danger. No moving, no fighting, no lifting. You need rest, Deputy.”
