Prologue
Buckeye Ranch, Nevada, July 13, 1880
The evening air was cooling over the Nevada desert. Heat still clung to the rocks and fence posts, but the sun was sinking low. Thomas Buckeye stood by the corral with a coil of rope in one hand and a hammer in the other. He had been fixing a loose rail, though his eyes strayed now and again to the horizon.
He spat in the dirt. Then he gave the post one more hard strike with the hammer.
“That’ll hold,” he said. His horses shifted in the corral, restless with the scent of dusk.
Normally, Rachel and Blaze would have been nearby, chattering at him. However, tonight the house was empty. His wife had taken the children into Red Rock Crossing for supplies. Thomas had stayed back to watch the ranch like he usually did. He didn’t mind the quiet. Not most days.
But tonight felt different.
He stood still for a moment, listening. The wind moved through the dry grass. A hawk cried out somewhere far above. Then he caught the sound of hooves.
Not one horse. Several. Coming fast.
Thomas straightened, rope sliding off his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes toward the west. A trail of dust rose against the fading sky.
“Riders,” he whispered.
The horses in the corral stamped nervously as their ears pricked. Thomas dropped the hammer and strode quickly to the porch. His Colt 1851 Navy revolver sat on the table just inside the door. He picked it up, checked the cylinder, then slid it into the holster at his side.
By the time he stepped back outside, the Riders had come into view.
Six of them. Dark shapes moving fast. The Hollow Creek Riders. He knew them the moment he saw their silhouettes. Their slouched hats and the way they carried themselves in the saddle gave them away. He had prayed he’d never see them again.
Thomas felt his stomach tighten. He stood on the porch.
The Riders thundered up and slowed to a trot. Dust swirled around them. At the front was Dean Wilder. His black coat was open, and a cruel smile was plastered across his face.
“Well, well,” Wilder called. “Thomas Buckeye. Still patchin’ fences like a good ranch hand?”
Thomas said nothing. His hand rested near the Colt on his hip.
Wilder swung down from his horse, boots striking the dirt. The others followed. Their spurs jingled as they walked. Their eyes glinted with meanness.
“You know why we’re here,” Wilder said, strolling closer. “We’ve come for what’s ours. Best hand it over.”
“Ain’t got a clue what you mean,” Thomas replied.
One of the Riders laughed. “Playin’ dumb, Buckeye.”
Another spat. “Everybody knows you took it. Gold from that coach we bled for.”
“I never stole from you, and I never will,” Thomas replied, his jaw clenching. “You men brought enough misery without draggin’ my name into it.”
Wilder’s smile widened, though his eyes were cold. “Funny. Folks in town whisper different. Say you tucked it away. Say you think you can outsmart us.”
“If I had gold, I’d have built more than a shack and a fence line,” Thomas replied.
One of the Riders stepped forward, sneering. “Search the place. Tear it apart.”
Wilder raised a hand to stop him.
“Easy, boys,” he said. “We’ll give our friend here a chance to speak true. Last time I’ll ask nice. Where’s the chest?”
Thomas’s fingers brushed the grip of his Colt. “Not here. Never was.”
