“You ain’t hittin’ nothin’ now, sweetheart,” he called. “Come on down, we’ll treat you real gentle.”
“Try it,” she muttered, setting her Hawken Plains rifle aside and drawing her Colt Paterson revolver.
She waited. Listened. The sound of boots crunching over stone grew nearer.
Then . . . silence.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Come on,” she whispered, her eyes darting between shadows.
A whisper of movement came from behind. It was a breath. A scrape of leather.
“Gotcha,” a voice rasped.
Marisol spun around. The man lunged, grabbing her shoulder. The rifle slid from her grasp, clattering down the rocks. He swung a knife, and she blocked it with her forearm, pain flaring as steel grazed her sleeve.
“Should’ve stayed in town,” the man snarled.
“Should’ve stayed in bed,” she shot back.
His face was familiar. He must have been at the stagecoach robbery. He had been there when her brother was murdered.
They called him Jeb.
She drove her elbow into his jaw, fury taking over her body. Jeb reeled. She ducked and swept his legs from under him. He hit the ground hard, kicking at her as he reached for the knifeagain. She fired once, point-blank. The crack echoed, deafening. Jeb went still.
She stood over him, breathing heavily as smoke rose from the barrel of her Colt.
“Five,” she said quietly.
She grabbed her rifle, slung it over her shoulder, and moved back toward her vantage point.
The mine mouth flickered again with muzzle flashes. She dropped to her belly and squinted into the distance.
Blaze was still inside. She could tell by the pattern—short, deliberate bursts, not the wild panic of the Riders. He was pinned, though.
“Hang in there,” she whispered. “You’re not dying in there.”
A Rider appeared again, trying to flank the mine. She adjusted her aim, squeezed, and he dropped. Another sprinted toward the gold cart. She hit him in the leg. He fell screaming, clutching his thigh.
“They just don’t stop,” she said, her voice barely audible.
She worked the rifle again, the rhythm of it calming her heartbeat.
“Think, Marisol. Think.”
Through the rising dust, she caught sight of a figure running toward the entrance—dark-haired and moving with purpose.
Chato Graycloud.
“Good man,” she said softly. “You hold that door.” She lined her sights on another Rider taking aim at him. “Not today,” she said.
The rifle cracked, and the man’s head snapped back. He toppled off the ledge and vanished into the ravine.
Then, she heard a voice coming from inside the mine.
“Don’t let him out!” he shouted.
