Page 12 of Anthony Hawk

Anthony gave a slow nod, filing away his name and the wagon’s heading. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

But as the wagon rumbled away, Anthony’s eyes narrowed. Something about the way the men moved kept gnawing at him.

He waited until the wagon disappeared down the main road. Then, he urged Spirit forward and continued following at a distance. He stayed in the shadow of cottonwoods and scrub, keeping out of sight. The wagon’s wheels rattled over dry earth, mules’ hooves thudding steadily.

By the time the road dipped, Bill stepped down from the wagon and moved deliberately to block the path.

“You don’t go no further,” he said, voice low but firm.

Anthony met his steady gaze. “And if I don’t?”

“You’ll wish you had.”

The nameless driver watched as the mules shifted. His eyes were expressive. He didn’t need to see his mouth to know that he was out here for trouble.

Anthony let the silence stretch, then tipped his hat.

“See you around.”

He turned Spirit, making a mental note of the wagon’s direction—straight toward the far ridges that bordered his family’s land near Eagle Rock.

By the time Anthony rode back into the blackened hollow where his homestead had stood, the sun was dipping low. The smell of ash hadn’t faded. Wind whispered through the skeletal remains of the barn.

He dismounted slowly, boots crunching over charred debris. Each step was a memory: his father mending fence posts, his mother at the porch rail. Now it was all gone.

But the fire hadn’t touched the old stone well. Anthony crouched near its base, brushing away soot from a patch of dirt. That’s when he saw it—scrape marks in the earth, like something heavy had been dragged and buried.

“Pa,” he murmured, “what’d you leave me?”

He fetched a half-bent crowbar from the rubble and worked at the packed soil. The ground gave with a dry crumble, and soonthe edge of iron showed. It was a small, scorched lockbox. The metal was pitted from the heat, but the latch was intact.

He set it on the well’s rim and pried it open. Inside lay a folded sheaf of papers. He unrolled them with careful hands.

Grant Deed – Parcel No. 48, Eagle Rock, Wyoming Territory.

Anthony exhaled slowly. The land title. His father’s name in bold script, signed and sealed.

“That yours?” a voice asked behind him.

He turned sharply, surprised to see Abigail standing just beyond the well, her skirt brushing the ash.

“I . . . didn’t expect you here,” Anthony said, blinking.

Abigail met his gaze. “I followed you,” she admitted quietly. “You didn’t seem like a man who’d go digging through old ashes without reason, and I wanted to see for myself.”

Anthony turned back to the lockbox. Her question hung in the air, unanswered. He sighed deeply.

“It could be, ma’am,” he said. “Could also be a reason Vanburgh’s been sniffing around.”

She stepped closer, eyes on the papers. “Eagle Rock,” she said. “That’s not just land. That’s leverage.”

Anthony tucked the deed back in the box. “It’s ours, legally. Which means Vanburgh can’t touch it without pushing me out...or burying me in it.”

“That’s why he’s poisoning the well,” Abigail said softly. “Drive the Shoshone away, claim the land’s abandoned, then move in before anyone can fight him.”

He looked at her, the glow of the sun catching in her hair. “You sound awful certain.”

“I’ve seen men like him before,” she said. “Money makes them think they can carve up the world like a roast.”