“They’re burying their dead today,” Marisol said.
He lifted his head. “We didn’t start it.”
“No,” she said, “but we sure as hell finished it.”
Graycloud approached from the far side of the street. He moved with the calm of a man who had made peace with violence long ago.
“The road looks clear for now,” he said quietly. “If those bandits had company, they are long gone.”
Blaze swallowed hard. “They weren’t supposed to be here.”
“They go where Wilder sends them,” Graycloud said. “Doesn’t matter who dies in the middle.”
The three of them stood there for a while, watching the town stir to life. Doors opened slowly, heads poked out, and whispers carried on the morning wind. Some looks were grateful. Others were as cold as river stones.
A bearded man crossed the street toward them, his eyes sharp beneath a sweat-stained hat. His hands were clean, but his coat was black. It was the kind undertakers wore.
“You’re the ones who did all that shootin’ last night,” he said.
“We didn’t have a choice,” Blaze replied, meeting his gaze.
“That so?” The man spat into the dust. “Well, choice or not, you turned this town upside down. Half of us figure we ought to thank you. The other half wants you gone before sundown.”
“And which half are you?” Marisol asked, folding her arms across her chest.
The man gave a dry smile.
“Ain’t decided yet.” He tipped his hat and walked on.
Blaze watched him go. “Guess that answers that.”
Marisol turned her head toward him. “He’s right, you know. We can’t stay.”
“Wilder will hear of it,” Graycloud replied. “He’ll come harder next time.”
“Good,” Blaze said, his voice low. “Let him come.”
Marisol shot him a sharp look. “You sound like you want to die.”
Blaze stared down the street where the blood still darkened the dust from where the bandits had been dragged.
“I ain’t lookin’ to die,” he said. “Just want to finish this.”
“Then we move,” Graycloud said. “Once the horses rest, we ride north. Wilder’s trail will have cut across the flats by now.”
“Let me pack what food’s left,” Marisol said, turning toward the saloon door. “If the folks here ain’t poisoned it yet.”
Inside the saloon, the air was thick with smoke. Chairs lay overturned, and glass glittered across the floor. Nobody had bothered to clean it up yet. Blaze followed her in, his boots crunching on broken bottles.
A few locals huddled by the bar, speaking in low tones. One of them was a woman with gray hair tucked under a bonnet. She looked up as they entered.
“You’re the boy who shot that Rider,” she said.
Blaze froze. “Ma’am.”
She stood slowly, her eyes searching his face. “He was a bad man. But still a man. It takes something out of you, don’t it?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
