“Or they’ll find us,” Blaze replied.
“This is suicide,” Marisol whispered.
Blaze pretended he didn’t hear her.
They rode down the north road, the heat still clinging even as the sun dipped. The town felt half asleep. A dog lay under a wagon, tail flicking lazily at flies. Two men argued over a crate near the general store. Somewhere, a piano note rang out wrong and went unanswered.
Something in the stillness made Blaze’s skin prickle. It felt like a place holding its breath before the lightning struck.
“We’ll head to the saloon,” Marisol said. “People talk when they drink.”
“Keep your coats closed,” Graycloud added. “No one needs to see iron unless they ask for it.”
“What about your rifle?” Blaze asked.
Marisol patted the butt of her Colt Paterson on her hip. “I’ll manage.”
They tied their horses outside. The saloon door hung crooked, its paint long gone. Music leaked from a piano that didn’t quite keep time with itself.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the sweet rot of spilled whiskey. A few men hunched over a poker game. A woman mended a shawl by the window. The barkeep polished a glass that hadn’t been clean in years.
For a moment, it all felt ordinary. It was like one of those rare places the desert forgot to claim.
Then the rhythm changed.
Outside, three riders approached. Blaze caught the shape of them through the window glare. Broad shoulders, long dusters too heavy for the heat, and hats pulled low.
One had a scar running from chin to ear. Another had a silver horseshoe pinned to his vest that glinted whenever he moved. The third stayed slightly back. He was smaller and meaner-looking, with twitchy eyes that never stopped moving.
“Hollow Creek Riders,” Blaze whispered.
Marisol’s jaw set. “Yeah. Wilder’s men.”
They dismounted, boots hitting the ground in perfect rhythm. The saloon seemed to go quiet, even the piano faltering mid-note.
The scarred man pushed the doors open and stepped inside like he owned the place. His grin showed gaps where teeth should have been.
“Well, well,” he drawled, sweeping his gaze across the room. “Ain’t this a sight. Guess Wilder’s hunch was right.”
“No reason for trouble,” Graycloud said, voice even.
The man laughed. It was a harsh and scraping sound. “That’s the thing about trouble. It don’t always need a reason.” He flicked his eyes toward Blaze. “Orders were simple enough...bring the Buckeye boy in. Kill anyone who stands beside him.”
Blaze’s fingers twitched near his Colt. Marisol’s hand drifted toward her own revolver.
“You got a death wish walking in here like that?” she said coolly.
The man’s grin widened. His partner beside him rapped his knuckles against his holster and said, “Maybe he’s got a few to spare, Benton.”
Benton chuckled low. “Ain’t that right, Jed?”
“That’s right,” Jed responded.
The third man snorted and stepped aside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air in the saloon turned thick as stew.
“Easy,” Graycloud said again. “We don’t want a fight.”
“Then why’re you here?” Benton asked. “Ain’t nowhere else to drink? Or are you huntin’ ghosts?”
