He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I knew Buckeye’s kind. Smooth talker. Always thinkin’ two steps ahead. Blaze...he’s the same breed. But boys like that break easier when you hit what they care for.”
O’Hara nodded. “The woman and the Indian.”
“Exactly.”
The wind shifted again, colder now. Wilder took a fresh cigar from his coat and struck a match. The flare lit his eyes, catching the faint gleam of gold dust clinging to his cuffs.
“I want eyes in every town between here and the mesa,” he said. “We move at dawn. O’Hara, take Clay and scout east. Jeb, you and Ike check the canyon wells. Get those fools from Maplewood on this as well. I want as many hired guns as we can get. Bring Caleb and his crew too. Anyone smellin’ of trail dust or new gunpowder, you tell me.”
The men nodded, already rising to ready their gear.
“And one more thing,” Wilder added. His tone softened, but it wasn’t gentle. “Next time you see that boy, don’t shoot him right off. Let him draw first. Let him think he’s got a chance.”
Clay frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes he don’t.”
He blew out the match and leaned back, listening to the storm roll closer. Thunder rumbled across the flats. The air smelled of rain and dust.
For the first time in months, Wilder felt something stir in his chest. Not joy. Not anger. Just a deep, hollow certainty. It always came before bloodshed.
By midnight, the camp had gone quiet. Wilder alone stayed awake, staring into the last embers of the fire. His reflection shimmered there, fractured by flame and shadow. He saw the years in his own face.
He thought of Jed, Benton, and Myles lying in the dirt, blood drying on saloon floors. Good men, mean as they came, and loyal when it mattered. He’d handpicked them years ago, promising them gold, freedom, and power.
And now they were gone. Taken by a kid who barely knew how to hold a Colt steady.
He reached down, touched the butt of his revolver where it hung at his thigh. It was old but well-kept, the ivory grip worn smooth from his hand. Thomas Buckeye’s hand had once held one just like it.
“You should’ve killed me clean,” he muttered to the dark. “Now I’ll do what you couldn’t. Finish it proper.”
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote called again. Wilder smiled faintly.
“Go on and howl,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ left to scare off now.”
He pushed himself up, brushed the dust from his coat, and looked out over the moonlit plain. The desert stretched away in every direction.
Somewhere out there, Blaze Buckeye was coming.
And when he did, Wilder would be ready.
Chapter 19
The sun rose slowly over Red Mesa, painting the town in shades of rust and ash. Smoke lingered from the night before, reminding Blaze of the bandits the townspeople had decided to burn all at once. The smell of blood and gunpowder hung heavily in the air.
Blaze sat on the saloon steps with his elbows on his knees and his hat tipped to block the glare. His revolver rested beside him. It had been cleaned and reloaded, but his hands still shook.
The gunfight had lasted minutes, yet it replayed in his mind like a wound that refused to close.
“Town’s quiet,” Marisol said.
Her boots crunched against the dirt as she came up beside him. She looked different in the morning light. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep. A streak of soot cut across her cheek. Her rifle hung from her shoulder like always, as if the fight might start up again at any moment.
“Yeah,” Blaze said. “Too quiet.”
Marisol scanned the street. A pair of undertakers hauled a body into a wagon, covering it with burlap. A woman knelt near the well, scrubbing at blood with a rag, her shoulders shaking with every stroke.
Blaze hadn’t realized how many casualties could result from stray bullets.
