Page 39 of Anthony Hawk

“Damn you all! You can’t keep me like an animal!”

The warrior shoved him down. “Animal fights. You beg.”

Laughter rose from the shadows again, mocking. Tate’s cheeks burned hotter than the fire. Hours passed, and the camp settled into a rhythm. Meat was roasting, and the murmuring voices enveloped him. Tate sat bound as rage simmered in his chest.

He muttered to himself like a madman. “Hawk thinks he’s clever,” he said. “Thinks dumping me here solves his problems. He doesn’t know Vanburgh like I do. Vanburgh will come. He’ll come for me.”

“Vanburgh will not come,” Black Wolf said quietly. “He does not care. You are a tool, already broken. He leaves broken tools behind.”

The words hit harder than the blows. Tate’s smirk faltered completely. “You...you don’t know him,” he said, his voice wavering.

Red Hawk leaned back. “We know enough. And we know you. Sleep, snake-tongue. Tomorrow, truth will burn from you like fever.”

Tate knew the Shoshone would kill him if he stayed. Patience had run out. His mind raced as he twisted against the ropes binding him to the tree. Every shift sent a jolt of pain up his arms. It was now or never.

“You move too much,” a warrior hissed, club across his shoulder. “One wrong move and you’ll break your bones.”

“I don’t care,” Tate spat. Blood streaked his cheek. “I care about leaving alive. Think the ropes scare me? Wrong.”

The warrior’s eyes narrowed. “Black Wolf has patience, but it is not endless. Another word, another motion—”

“Another motion?” Tate pulled sharply at the ropes. Pain shot through his wrists. One more motion toward freedom.

A twig snapped behind him. Tate froze. This was it. Not one second of hesitation.

“I’m leaving,” he whispered. The ropes rattled. “There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

A guard stepped closer with his knife drawn. “You think you can get away?”

“I already am,” Tate muttered, twisting the ropes again. Fibers groaned under the strain. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin.

The warrior lunged, club swinging. Tate ducked and rolled across the dirt. Pain flared up his arms. He sprang to his feet and scanned the shadows.

“You won’t escape!” another tribe member shouted.

“I already have,” Tate whispered. With a sudden jerk and twist, the ropes binding his wrists gave way. He snapped free from the tree. The metal shackle bit at his ankle, but it did not stop him.

The camp erupted. Men shouted. Sticks and knives clattered. Tate’s heart hammered. A thrown stone grazed his shoulder. He ignored it.

“You underestimate me!” he shouted, ducking beneath a branch. “I’ve survived worse. I always survive.”

“You think the chief will forgive this?” a guard shouted.

“Forgive me?” Tate snarled. “I don’t need forgiveness. I need to live. And I will.”

Another club grazed his shoulder. He rolled, ducking behind a fallen tree. The confusion of the camp worked in hisfavor. They hadn’t expected him to move this fast. They didn’t see him coming.

“You can’t escape the spirits,” a warrior hissed.

“The spirits don’t bind iron,” Tate muttered, pressing along the tree line. The shackle dragged behind him, clanging against rocks and roots. Pain shot through his leg with every step.

He slid into a shallow ravine. Spears and sticks whistled past. He twisted and rolled. Every move was calculated. One guard lunged. Tate spun, his elbow catching the man’s ribs. He sent him sprawling.

The rise ahead promised escape. A blade swung at his head and missed. Tate kicked a stone at the attacker’s feet and pressed on.

Dust swirled. Lungs burned.

“Stop! Don’t let him—” a guard screamed.