“That sounds like a compliment,” Blaze replied.
She shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Graycloud tossed one of the hares onto a flat rock near the fire. “Heart is fine,” he said. “But heart without patience dies early.”
“I’ve got patience,” Blaze insisted.
Marisol snorted. “You’ve got anger.”
“Yeah,” Blaze said softly. “That too.”
They ate in silence for a while as the desert whispered around them.
“You think we’ll find them soon?” Blaze dared to ask as he stared into the fire.
“They’re close,” Graycloud said. “Maybe a day ahead. You’ll know their camp when you smell it. Whiskey, sweat, and greed—they’re all the same.”
Blaze assumed that Graycloud was talking about outlaws. He must have had a few run-ins with bandits before Wilder.
Slowly, Marisol reloaded her rifle, the metal glinting in the firelight.
“When we do, keep your head down until I tell you otherwise,” she said. “You don’t rush in...you don’t try to play hero. You understand?”
“I ain’t afraid of them,” Blaze replied, looking between his new campmates.
“Good,” she said. “Fear keeps you sharp. Pride gets you shot.”
“You ever run out of advice?” he asked.
“Not for people who need it,” Marisol replied without hesitation.
Graycloud leaned back against a rock, eyes half-closed. “You both talk too much again.”
Blaze laughed quietly. “Guess we do.”
For a moment, it almost felt normal. Three souls bound by revenge, sitting in the calm before the storm. But Blaze knew what lay ahead. The Riders were out there, somewhere beyond the black hills.
He looked down at the revolver in his lap, its barrel glinting in the firelight. His reflection flickered in it. A boy’s face hardened by loss and tempered by purpose.
Chapter 13
“It feels off,” Marisol said.
The words came sharp, as hard as the desert wind. Blaze felt them like a shiver along his spine.
They rode low through the dry creek bed, mud-cracked banks towering at their shoulders. The sun beat a flat glare down into the hollow.
“Quiet is bad for the ears out here,” Chato said, his voice soft but sure.
Nancy picked her step carefully, hooves whispering on the grit. Blaze kept his eyes on the bank lines, scanning for the broken brush and flash of hat that meant men.
Anything could happen out here. He liked to think that he was prepared for it all.
“Don’t like the way the light hits the left bank,” Blaze said.
He pulled his hat low, feeling sweat track cold down his temple. The tracks ahead were faint, but fresh hoofprints marred the edge where the Riders might cross.
“Watch the banks,” Marisol spoke up from her saddle. She shifted her rifle, muzzle low and ready. Her stare burned like a coal.
