“Something’s wrong,” Marisol said.
Her voice cut through the wind like the snap of a whip. Blaze glanced her way, furrowing his brows under the brim of his hat.
They’d been riding half the morning. The sun was already hammering down. Ahead lay the outline of a small frontier town. It was just a few buildings, a church spire, and the promise of a well.
“What makes you say that?” Blaze asked.
“It feels strange around here,” she said. “Too quiet.”
Graycloud slowed his horse beside them, scanning the distance.
“Ain’t seen smoke from chimneys,” he said. “No wagons moving. Not even dogs.”
“Maybe it’s Sunday,” Blaze said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.
Marisol shook her head. “It’s Tuesday.”
They rode on another hundred yards before Blaze raised a hand. “We’ll go in slow. Keep to the edge.”
The town was called Dry Creek, though right now it looked more like it had dried up entirely. A single horse stood tied to a hitching post outside the saloon with its head down and its ribs showing. The windows were shuttered, and the curtains were drawn.
Blaze was the first to dismount. “Stay close.”
“Like we always do,” Marisol replied, slipping her rifle strap higher on her shoulder.
Graycloud scanned the rooftops. “A place like this don’t go this still without reason.”
They moved down the main street, boots crunching over dust. Blaze could feel eyes behind the shutters. They were watching. He stepped onto the porch of the general store and pushed the door open.
A bell jingled, and the sound seemed too loud in the hush.
“Hello?” Blaze called. “We’re just looking to buy feed and water.”
No answer.
He took a few steps inside. The counter was empty, and the shelves were half-stocked. A fly buzzed lazily around a tipped-over jar of molasses.
Then, from behind the counter came a shuffle.
“Who’s there?” Blaze said.
A man rose slowly, hands half-raised. He was middle-aged and thin. His beard was streaked with gray.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said.
“Are you selling?” Blaze asked.
The man nodded, but his eyes darted to the door, then to Blaze’s gun belt.
“Depends on who’s asking,” he replied.
“Name’s Blaze Buckeye,” Blaze said. “These are my friends.”
The storekeeper froze. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You...you need to leave.”
Blaze frowned. “We just need supplies.”
“I said leave,” the man snapped. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, and I sure ain’t feeding no outlaws.”
