The silence stretched. Someone coughed. A pebble skittered down from the tunnel wall. Blaze could feel sweat tracing his temple. He needed to count again, keep his mind working. Eight men total now, maybe nine if one was deeper inside. Wilder made ten.
Probably more down the tunnels.
Not good odds.
“Boss,” one of the Riders said, “maybe he’s just some drifter. Ain’t worth—”
Wilder lifted a hand. “I’ll decide what he’s worth.”
Blaze held his breath. He had crazy luck on his side if none of Wilder’s men had recognized him yet.
Though, how could they? Every bandit that had been close enough to study his face was now dead.
Wilder stepped closer, close enough that Blaze could smell the stale whiskey on his breath.
“You got eyes like someone I once crossed,” he said. “It was a kid who tried to ruin me once.”
“Sounds like he failed.”
“He did.” Wilder grinned thinly. “But I remember him. Had a temper. Blaze Buckeye, they call him.”
The name hit the air like a bullet. No one moved.
Blaze smiled faintly. “Can’t say I ever heard of him.”
“No?” Wilder tilted his head. “Pity. You got his look.”
“Guess there’s worse men to resemble.”
Wilder stared, then turned his back, pacing slowly toward the lantern hanging on the wall. “See, I been thinking about him,” he said. “This Blaze Buckeye. Killed some of my best riders. Cost me good men. Cost me gold.” He turned again. “Man like that’s got a habit of showin’ up where he ain’t wanted.”
“Sounds reckless,” Blaze said, shrugging simply.
“Oh, he’s more than reckless.” Wilder’s hand brushed the butt of his revolver. “He’s stubborn. Thinks he’s got God on his side.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Wilder’s eyes glinted. “Lift your head.”
Blaze hesitated. “What for?”
“Do it.”
Blaze lifted his chin, meeting his gaze head-on. The lantern light caught his eyes. Wilder froze.
The recognition hit like thunder. For a long moment, nothing moved. Then Wilder’s lips curved.
“Well,” he said softly. “I’ll be damned.”
Blaze didn’t move. The silence of the mine thickened, broken only by the slow drip of water from the ceiling. Somewhere deeper in the tunnel, a wagon wheel creaked.
“You got nothin’ to say?” Wilder asked, his voice calm but tight. “Not even a howdy?”
“Wouldn’t know what to say,” Blaze replied. “Seems you already said it.”
“That I did.” Wilder’s grin spread. “Never thought I’d see your face again. Last I heard from my boys, you were half-dead in the desert.”
“Guess you heard wrong,” Blaze said.
