“Then we ride,” the Indian said, nodding.
Marisol sighed. “You two are gonna get me killed.”
Blaze managed a thin smile. “Not before we get him first.”
They set camp among the rocks overlooking the valley.
As the last light bled from the sky, Blaze sat apart, watching the shadows stretch across the dig site below. The ground shimmered faintly in the moonlight, as if something beneath it still breathed.
He thought about his father. About the day he was killed by Wilder.
Then, he thought about the recent murder of his mother.
Both his parents had always said that they never had the gold. His father would have never stolen it. It made no sense.
Now that Wilder had allegedly found some kind of treasure, it made Blaze wonder if it had been buried out here by someone else.
Chapter 21
The sun rose over the desert, turning the rocks the color of old blood. Blaze crouched behind a ridge of sandstone, his Colt Navy revolver heavy in his hand and his eyes fixed on the valley below. The world was still. There was no wind, no sound but the faint ticking of Shadow’s reins behind him.
“I think they’ll come through that gap,” Graycloud said.
He pointed toward a narrow pass between two ridges. Dust hung faintly in the air there. It wasn’t from the wind but from wheels.
“You’re sure it’s them?” Blaze asked.
Graycloud’s eyes narrowed. “Wagon train. Six, maybe seven riders on guard. Too big for traders, too armed for settlers.”
“Wilder’s crew,” Marisol said.
She checked her rifle quickly, her eyes never leaving the horizon. “How do you wanna play it, Blaze?”
“Quiet, if we can,” Blaze replied. “Loud if we have to.”
“Always a man with a plan,” Marisol said, grinning at his response.
“Not much of one,” Blaze admitted. “But it’ll do.”
They spread out along the ridge. Marisol was higher up, Graycloud was lower, and Blaze was somewhere in between. From here, he could see everything: the cracked earth stretching for miles, the wagon train drawing closer, and the glint of sunlight on metal.
They had been following this trail for ages. Now, it was finally time to face the Hollow Creek Riders. Whatever was left of them.
When they finally came into view, Blaze’s chest tightened.
The wagons were heavy and canvas-covered, pulled by mules. Men rode on either side, their dusters streaked with sweat and sand. Each wore the mark of the Riders. Blaze could see it even from a distance.
Riding at their head was Dean Wilder. Blaze recognized him immediately.
He felt the world narrow to that single figure.
“There he is,” Blaze whispered.
Marisol steadied her rifle. “You want me to take him?”
“Not yet,” Blaze said, his throat dry. “We get the wagons first. Cut him off from the rest.”
Graycloud nodded, slipping his bow from his shoulder. “I’ll take the rear.”
