Page 21 of Anthony Hawk

The office stank of gunpowder and blood. The only sound was Anthony’s own breathing and the faint ringing in his ears.

He didn’t wait to see if any of them would get back up. He shoved the Colt into his waistband, kicked open the front door, and stepped into the moonlit street.

The town was mostly dark, but curtains twitched here and there. A single lantern bobbed near the far end of the street. Muldoon’s place, maybe. Anthony didn’t have time to explain.

He ran for the hitching post, untying his mare with fumbling hands. His arm throbbed where the knife had cut him, but the pain was distant, drowned in adrenaline.

A shout went up behind him. One of the wounded men had staggered to the doorway.

Anthony swung into the saddle, heels digging into the mare’s flanks. She surged forward, hooves striking sparks from the hard-packed dirt.

Bullets chased him down the street, snapping past in the dark.

Then the town was behind him, swallowed by the open land and the cold silver of the moon.

He didn’t stop riding until the lights of Silver Cross were just a memory and the only sound was the wind in the grass.

Anthony slowed the mare, letting her catch her breath. He glanced back once, but there was nothing in the darkness behind him.

For now, he’d bought himself a little space. But Vanburgh wouldn’t stop.

Tonight had proven that. Next time, they wouldn’t be so careless.

Anthony tightened his grip on the Colt, the metal warm from his hand. The sheriff had taken it earlier, and now he’d gotten it back the hard way. He’d keep it close from now on.

If Vanburgh wanted a fight, then Anthony would give him one. On his own terms.

Chapter 10

The mountains loomed black against the stars. Their peaks were lost in drifting summer clouds. Anthony pushed his mare along the rocky trail, every hoofbeat muffled by the dry night air.

The cut on his forearm stung whenever the reins pulled against it. It was a shallow slice from the knife one of the men had tried to stick him with back in Silver Cross. Not enough to slow him down, but enough to remind him how close the night had already come.

By the time the first pale light of dawn brushed the eastern ridgeline, he had put ten miles between himself and the jail.

The high country greeted him with the hiss of wind in pine needles. Somewhere below, a thin stream wound its way through the valley. Its surface glinted in the faint moonlight.

Anthony stopped just long enough to let Spirit drink. His eyes were constantly scanning the horizon. The trail he had taken forked twice. Anyone following would have to choose right.

Hoofbeats reached him first. They were faint at first, but then they grew under the hush of the trees.

Anthony’s gut tightened. He knew that sound. It belonged to men who could ride all night without speaking.

A few moments later, voices cut through the dark.

“You see any signs?” a deep voice asked.

“Fresh,” another replied. “Goin’ north. That’ll be him.”

Anthony knew the names from town talk and saloon whispers.

Krell, Boone, and Sykes.

They were men with reputations built on bringing in targets fast and quiet, with no fuss about whether they were still breathing. They weren’t hired to chase the kind of people who gave up easily.

Anthony swung back into the saddle and steered up the slope, leaving the trail entirely. The rocky ground was punishing on Spirit, but it wouldn’t leave prints.

An hour later, the sound of their mounts still carried faintly through the timber. Anthony eased the mare under a canopy oftrees, letting the shadows swallow him whole. He slid from the saddle quietly.