Blaze’s jaw tightened. His revolver hung in his hand, the hammer half-cocked. “I know he was better than you.”
Wilder laughed again. “Better? He was me before me. Only I was smart enough not to trust friends.”
He reached into his coat and pulled something folded and brittle with age. He flicked it open and held it toward Blaze.
“You oughta see this,” he said.
“What is it?” Blaze asked.
“Truth,” Wilder said.
Blaze stepped closer, just enough for the lamplight to hit the paper. It was yellowed, creased, and torn. A wanted poster...faded ink, black letters. The face staring back at him was his father’s.
Though he saw it on paper, it was still hard to believe. Blaze fought the truth. A part of him did not want to give in.
“Name’s different, sure,” Wilder said. “Went by ‘Jack Carrow’ back then. Hell of a shot. Hell of a liar. Rode with me for near two years.”
“You’re lying,” Blaze said quietly.
Wilder grinned wider. “Ain’t got the wit for lying that long, son. Ask any man who wore the brand back then. We robbed the Wells Fargo train outta Laramie together. Split the take...gold, bonds, silver. But he got greedy. Thought he’d run with it.”
“That’s not true,” Blaze said. His hand shook just once, barely.
“Oh, it’s true,” Wilder said. “He begged just before I killed him, too. Told me about his wife, his boy. Said he was done with the outlaw life. But there’s no leaving once you take blood money. Not clean, anyway.”
“Shut up,” Blaze said.
“I watched him die, right in the dirt,” Wilder went on. “Put one in his chest, another in his back when he tried to crawl away. You were, what, ten? Twelve? Guess he never told you the part where he was scum, same as me.”
“Shut up!” Blaze shouted.
“And your mama,” Wilder continued with a smirk on his face. “She knew, didn’t she? She didn’t marry no ranch hand, boy. She married a thief trying to hide from his own sins.”
Blaze’s knuckles went white on the grip of his revolver. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
“You talk about her again,” he said, voice low and even, “and I’ll send you to meet him.”
“Maybe you should,” Wilder said, spreading his arms. “Maybe it’s your fate. You can’t wash off what runs in your blood, boy. That outlaw stink don’t fade. You’ll end up just like him...stealing, shooting, and then dying in a hole.”
“I ain’t my father,” Blaze said.
“You are,” Wilder said. “You just don’t see it yet. Look at you...out here killing men, same as we did. You think that’s justice? It’s greed, plain and simple. You are wearing it proud now.”
Blaze’s voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
“I know enough,” Wilder said. “You came for revenge, same as he did. Same mistake. You think patience wins a gunfight? Luck does.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Blaze replied, lifting his eyes.
“Oh?” Wilder tilted his head. “Then tell me, preacher’s son, what’d your old man teach you before I put him down?”
Blaze looked him straight in the eye. “He taught me to wait.”
The moment hung between them, heavy as stone.
Then Wilder moved.
The lamplight flared as his pistol cleared leather. Too fast for most men, but Blaze was already steady, already centered. The world narrowed to breath and sight and to the rhythm in his chest.
