Blaze reached over and folded the map again.
“Get some rest,” he said. “We will ride for the mountain soon.”
“The path will be steep,” Graycloud said.
“Then we climb,” Blaze said.
Marisol pulled her hat low over her eyes. “Always do.”
The wind carried embers into the night, scattering them like fleeting stars. Blaze stayed awake long after the others had fallen silent, the map pressed in his hands, his thoughts circling like vultures.
When he finally lay back, the sky above him was endless. Somewhere beyond those mountains, Wilder was building something.
Blaze only knew one thing: he was riding straight toward it.
Chapter 31
“Move, damn you! That slope won’t wait for lazy hands!” Wilder barked, his voice echoing off the granite walls.
The air in the high country was thin and dry, every breath cutting through dust kicked up by boots and hooves. A dozen of his men strained to drag the stolen mules loaded with sacks of gold up a narrow trail toward the mouth of an old silver mine. The mine sat carved into the cliffside like a wound.
“Keep that crate steady!” he snapped again. “You drop one more ingot, and I’ll feed you to the buzzards myself!”
“Easy, boss,” Ike called, his back slick with sweat. “We’re movin’ as fast as—”
“Faster,” Wilder cut him off.
He stood above them on a rocky ledge, watching through narrowed eyes as the Riders obeyed. He could see the tremor intheir movements and the sideways glances when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Fear kept them working. Fear and gold. That was all that was left to bind them.
They had to leave their wagon at the bottom of the mountain. There was no way the horses could pull all that weight through these roads.
That mission alone took up half the day: steal mules from a local ranch, ditch the wagon, and move the gold from the wagon onto the mules.
Dean Wilder was close to losing his patience.
“Bring the rest of that powder inside,” he said, motioning to two others. “If Buckeye’s coming, I want this whole place ready to blow if he sets foot on that trail.”
“Blaze Buckeye,” murmured one of the men, almost under his breath.
Wilder’s head snapped around. “What was that?”
“Nothin’, boss.”
“You sure?” He stepped closer, boots crunching over shale. “Because it sounded like you said his name.”
The man swallowed hard. “Just...just makin’ sure everyone knows what we’re fightin’ for.”
“We ain’t fightin’ for him,” Wilder said, his voice low and sharp. “We’re fightin’ for what’s ours. The gold. The land. The life we took when no one else had the guts to.”
He turned back toward the mine entrance. Inside, shadows moved. Men were hammering timbers, stacking crates, and setting up firing positions along the narrow tunnels. The old supports groaned under the strain of life again. Wilder had always liked the sound; it reminded him of bones under pressure.
“Get the rifles up on those rocks,” he ordered. “Two men at each ridge. No fires at night, no voices carrying. I want eyes open till sunrise.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna climb this high without dying trying,” said O’Hara, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s suicide for any man to come up here.”
“That’s what they said about me once,” Wilder muttered.
