“Place,” Chato said. “South of here. Old mining town...emptied out after the flood. Dry now. No law. If they’re meeting anywhere, it’d be there.”
Blaze frowned, trying to picture it. He’d heard of Red Mesa when he was younger. Miners swallowed by tunnels, a flood that washed away half the town.
Folks said you could still find bones down there if you looked hard enough.
“You think Wilder’s there?” he asked.
“Could be,” Chato replied. “The Hollow Creek Riders use spots like that. High ground, water nearby, tunnels for cover. They’ll feel safe.”
Marisol reached out and tapped the corner of the map. “The note mentions somethin’ about a shipment from the east road. Could be arms. Could be gold.”
Gold.The word stung Blaze’s ears like a spark. He clenched the paper, knuckles whitening.
“Could be Wilder,” he said.
Marisol gave him a look that weighed his words before she spoke.
“Then we go careful,” she said. “If this leads where I think it does, we’ll be walkin’ straight into the lion’s den.”
“Better that than runnin’ blind.” Blaze’s voice came out rough, scraped raw by the dry wind. “If he’s there, I want to know.”
Chato folded the paper and tucked it into his vest. “We’ll stop ahead. We rest, think it through. If Red Mesa’s the next step, we move as soon as we can.”
They started walking again, the silence stretching between them. Blaze stared at the fading horizon, where the mesa rose dark and red against the sky. It looked like a wound, deep and unhealed.
He felt that same wound inside himself. Open, aching, but alive.
Marisol walked a few paces ahead. She looked back once, eyes catching his.
“Don’t go makin’ promises to ghosts, kid.”
“I’m not,” Blaze said softly. “I’m makin’ one to myself.”
The wind picked up, stirring the dust at their feet. They walked on, three shadows against the dying light.
Behind them lay silence: six dead men, a single fallen horse, and the first blood on the road to Red Mesa.
Chapter 15
“Close the door,” Marisol said.
Blaze pushed it shut against the wind. The wood groaned. Dust swirled across the floorboards, the last light of dusk bleeding through a crack in the roof. The shack was barely more than four walls and a half-collapsed chimney, but it was shelter. After what they’d gone through, it felt like the only place left in the world.
“I’ll get a fire going,” Blaze said.
“Use the dry boards by the hearth,” Graycloud replied. “No smoke. Keep it low.”
“Right,” Blaze said.
He crouched by the hearth, struck flint, and watched sparks catch on brittle kindling. The flame licked upward, weak but alive. His hands were shaking. He told himself it was from the cold.
Behind him, Marisol stripped her rifle and wiped the barrel clean with a rag. Her movements were sharp and angry. Every snap of metal echoed through the cabin like a slap. Graycloud sat cross-legged near the wall, his face unreadable in the flickering light.
No one spoke for a long time.
When Blaze finally did, his voice came quiet. “I can’t believe Nancy’s gone.”
Marisol didn’t look up. “We all saw it.”
