Marisol’s shots chased them as they spurred the mules forward. Graycloud sent two more arrows flying, but Wilder was already pulling ahead, his black leather hat flashing once in the sunlight before vanishing behind a veil of dust.
Blaze stopped running, breath ragged.
The desert went quiet again. Just the hiss of wind and the smell of spent gunpowder.
Marisol rode down the slope toward him. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Blaze said softly. “He’s got the gold.”
Graycloud joined them, his face set hard. “And now he’s got reason to kill whoever stands in his way.”
Blaze holstered his revolver, staring after the dust trail fading toward the horizon. “Then we’d best make sure we’re the ones waiting at the end of it.”
The wind kicked up, sweeping through the shattered wagons, rattling the few gold coins still glinting in the sand.
Chapter 22
“Ride faster, damn you. The sun’s wasting!” Wilder barked.
Dust swirled around the Riders as they thundered across the open flats, hooves pounding like war drums. The gold chest rode in the back of the creaking wagon, wrapped in tarps and guarded by two men who hadn’t taken their eyes off it since the shootout.
Wilder’s face was streaked with dirt, but his grin hadn’t faded since the moment they unearthed the treasure.
“Slow down before the horses drop,” Clay shouted over the wind.
“They’ll rest when I say,” Wilder snapped. He turned in the saddle, the wind whipping his coat back. “You see what’s behind us? Nothing but a dying world. You want to end up like that?”
Clay didn’t answer. He just nodded and pushed his horse harder.
Wilder looked ahead again, eyes burning from the glare. The chest occupied his mind as much as it did that wagon. That dull, golden light seemed to pulse when he closed his eyes.
It wasn’t cursed, no. But it did something to him. Made him feel taller. Smarter. Like every mile ahead already belonged to him.
“You boys ever seen that kind of shine before?” he called out, his voice half a laugh.
“Not in this lifetime,” came a reply from his left.
“That’s right,” Wilder said, his grin turning sharp. “And not in the next one either.”
They reached a stretch of charred land where a ranch once stood. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and rot. Wilder raised a hand, slowing the column. The Riders fanned out, picking through the wreckage.
“Take what’s worth taking,” Wilder said. “Water, food, ammunition...everything else burns.”
“Already burnt,” muttered O’Hara. He kicked at a blackened post. “Ain’t nothin’ left.”
Wilder dismounted, boots crunching over cinders. “Always something left. Even bones got stories.”
He crouched near a half-buried crate and pried it open with his knife. Canned goods. He tossed one to O’Hara.
“See? You just gotta look.”
O’Hara caught it awkwardly. “You think Blaze is still coming after us?”
“Blaze Buckeye,” Wilder said, tasting the name. “That boy’s a ghost following his daddy’s trail. He’ll keep coming till I make him stop.”
“How?” he asked. “He’s found us everywhere we went.”
Wilder stood and wiped sweat from his brow. “By showing him that he’s chasing smoke.”
