Burnt or not, the ranch was his doing, and yet the thought tasted bitter.
“I should’ve killed ’em,” Wilder said suddenly.
The Riders glanced up, surprised by the words.
“Sir?” asked Ike, a scarred brute riding close to Wilder’s flank.
“Blaze and the sister,” Wilder said. “Should’ve shot ’em as soon as I saw ’em.”
“They’re just kids, no?” Clay muttered.
“They’re Buckeyes,” Wilder snapped. His voice carried like a whip crack. “And that’s enough.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the horses. The Riders shifted in their saddles, exchanging uneasy looks.
Finally, Jeb Rawley cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon, boss, but...maybe keepin’ ’em alive had use,” he said. “Maybe they know somethin’. About the treasure.”
Wilder’s head turned slowly, his eyes locking on him. There was no heat in them, only a cold weight that made Jeb shrink back. “They don’t know,” Wilder said.
“You sure?” Rawley asked cautiously.
“I knew their daddy better than you ever did,” Wilder said. His hand tightened on the reins. “Thomas Buckeye wasn’t fool enough to tell his kin where he stashed it. If he even stashed it.”
“He did,” muttered Jed Harker from the rear. Jed’s voice was gravelly, his beard tangled and wild. “I was there,” he added. “I saw him pull that chest off the stage before we lit it up. He didn’t die with it, neither. Must’ve buried it.”
“Then why ain’t we found it in three years?” Wilder shot back.
Jed shut his mouth, though his glare burned through the dark.
Wilder’s jaw worked. He hated speaking Buckeye’s name aloud, as if it gave the dead man power. He remembered the night plain as yesterday. The raid, the gunfire, the chest heavy with stolen gold. And Thomas Buckeye turning on them.
But the chest . . . it vanished.
The desert had a way of swallowing things.
“I ain’t keepin’ no Buckeye brats alive,” Wilder said finally, voice hard. “Treasure or no, they’ll never tell me. Pride runs too deep. Same as their father. I’ll wring ’em dry, and they’ll spit in my face for it.” He spat into the dirt. “No use. Should’ve killed ’em.”
The Riders fell quiet again.
Wilder pressed his heels to his black Arabian mare and pushed the pace. The night wind pulled at his coat and stung his eyes.
Behind him, the gang spread out—a rough collection of men bound together by violence and greed. There was Ike Grady, scarred from scalp to jaw. Jeb Rawley, loud-mouthed but quick with a pistol. Jed Harker, old and bitter, who drank more than he ate. Clay Dobbs, too young and too shaky, desperate to prove himself.
Others too...Benton and O’Hara, men who followed Wilder without question because they feared him more than they trusted him.
They rode for miles, scanning the brush and circling dry creek beds, checking every stand of mesquite and cottonwood. But the desert held its secrets close.
At one point, Clay called out and slid off his horse. He crouched low, running his fingers across the sand.
“Small prints,” he said. “Two people, running. Headin’ north.”
Wilder swung down, boots crunching. He squatted beside the boy, studying the faint impressions. Small. Uneven. The girl stumbling, the boy pulling her along.
“Buckeyes,” Wilder said. He stood, eyes narrowing toward the dark hills ahead. “Keep on ’em,” he ordered.
The Riders mounted again, pressing into the night.
Hours passed, and the desert changed shape around them. The land rose into low ridges, shadows deepening in the moonlight.
