Page 6 of Anthony Hawk

“Don’t insult me,” Anthony cut in, his voice like steel. “I’ve seen raids. This wasn’t one.”

The room fell into a taut silence. Thomas Brigg watched Muldoon closely. His mouth was a hard line.

The sheriff’s face remained unreadable, but his fingers drummed once against the desk. “You’re stirring trouble that’ll get you killed,” he said finally. “Let it go.”

Anthony didn’t move. “Not a chance.”

The sheriff’s jaw clenched. The deputies exchanged uneasy glances. Muldoon’s hand rested heavily on the desk, knuckles white.

“You’re making a mistake, Hawk,” the sheriff said quietly. “This town needs the railroad more than it needs troublemakers.”

“And what about my family?” Anthony asked. “What about justice?”

The sheriff said nothing. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, the door burst open.

Joel was a rough-looking man with a weather-beaten face. He stepped inside. His Smith & Wesson revolver rested loosely at his side, but the tension in his posture spoke of readiness.

“Sheriff,” Joel said in a low voice, “there’s word from the railroad camp. They want to know if we’ve heard anything about Hawk poking around.”

Muldoon’s eyes flicked to Anthony.

“You hear that, Hawk?” he asked. “The railroad’s got ears everywhere.”

Anthony kept his face still, but the thought hit him like a cold wind. Someone must have seen him. Seen the fight at the homestead, the three riders he’d put in the ground.

Word had a way of traveling fast, especially when the railroad wanted it to.

And if the man pulling the strings had already been wondering why Anthony Hawk wasn’t in his family’s cabin during the so-called Indian raid, this would only sharpen his suspicion.

Hawk wasn’t a stranger here. Folks knew his habits, his routes, the way he came and went. Whoever planned the massacre would have noticed his absence. Now, they’d be wondering what exactly he had been doing instead.

“Boss wants this quiet,” Joel said, stepping forward. “No stirring up the town.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’re the ones who burned my family’s home.”

“I’m just the messenger,” Joel replied. “You got a smart mouth for a man who’s got no backup.”

Muldoon raised a hand. “Enough. Mr. Hawk, I suggest you leave town for your own safety. We don’t want bloodshed here.”

Anthony met the sheriff’s gaze, hard as flint. “No,” he said. “I’m not leaving. Not until I get answers.”

Muldoon’s expression darkened.

Outside, the townsfolk had gathered. Whispers flowed like a slow river. Anthony could feel their eyes—some filled with fear, others with something close to pity.

He turned toward the door.

The barmaid from the saloon caught his eye from across the street. She gave him a subtle nod—a warning wrapped in a gesture.

Anthony mounted Spirit, the mare steady beneath him. As he rode through the town, he felt the weight of every glance and every whisper.

The sheriff’s words echoed in his mind:We don’t want bloodshed.

But Anthony knew better.

Blood had already been spilled. And the fight was just beginning.