O’Hara folded his arms. “We’re down three, and half the horses are runnin’ lean. You wanna go huntin’ in this heat, we’ll need to resupply.”
“We will,” Wilder replied. “But first we plan.”
He walked to the wagon at the edge of camp and pulled out a weather-beaten chest. Inside were maps, notes, and a singleleather pouch. He tossed it on the crate with a heavy clink of metal inside.
“That’s what’s left,” he said. “Nuggets from the first dig. Buckeye took the rest when he double-crossed me. I know that he buried that haul somewhere between here and the ridge. You boys know what that means?”
Clay frowned. “Means the gold’s still out there.”
“It means we don’t stop till we find it,” Wilder said. “And now we got two reasons: the gold and the boy.”
Jeb sat forward, eyes glinting with something mean. “You want him brought in?”
“No.” Wilder’s voice hardened. “I want him to see it comin’. I want him to feel what it’s like when everything you love burns down around you.”
The fire popped again, throwing sparks up into the dark. Wilder turned away, hands clasped behind his back. His shadow stretched long across the sand, swallowing the smaller ones around it.
O’Hara cleared his throat. “We could set up along the south pass. If they’re headin’ away from Red Mesa, that’s the only route they’ll take.”
“Maybe,” Wilder said. “But Blaze ain’t like his old man. Buckeye ran from fights. The boy runs toward them. He’ll come for me sooner or later.”
He crouched and drew lines in the dirt with a stick, marking valleys and routes.
“Red Mesa, Hollow Creek, then the south pass,” he murmured. “They’ll need water, supplies, and rest. We’ll catch their scent at the wells.”
Ike knelt beside him. “That’s a lot of ground, boss.”
“It is,” Wilder said. “So we make sure they come to us.”
“How?” Clay asked.
Wilder looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “By givin’ them something they can’t resist.” He stood again and pointed toward the wagon. “There’s a stash from the old days,” he said. “Buckeye’s mark is still on the crates. We plant it near the mesa ridge. Word will spread fast enough. Folks talk, Blaze listens. He’ll think he’s close to me.”
“And when he comes?” O’Hara asked.
“We’ll be waitin’,” Wilder said. “All of us.”
The gang exchanged glances, the firelight carving hard angles across their faces. Jeb grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Clay cracked his knuckles. Only O’Hara seemed uneasy, his gaze lingering on the dark horizon.
***
Night deepened over the camp. The fire burned lower, sending up faint plumes that wavered in the shifting wind.
The men settled around it, cleaning their guns or staring into nothing. Somewhere beyond the dunes, a storm brewed. Lightning flashed behind the clouds like the slow beat of a giant’s heart.
Wilder sat apart, watching the horizon. His coat was draped over his shoulders, and his hat sat low enough to hide the pale scar that cut across his brow.
He could still see it clearly: the canyon, the dust, and the way Thomas Buckeye smiled before turning his back.
Some nights, he still woke to the sound of Thomas’s mocking laughter.
He rubbed at his temple, jaw tight. The firelight painted the side of his face in red and shadow.
“You think a man’s ghost can curse his own son?” he asked suddenly.
Clay looked up from his rifle. “Can’t say. Don’t figure ghosts give much of a damn about bloodlines.”
“Maybe not,” Wilder said. “But I do.”
