Page 71 of Anthony Hawk

Tomorrow was war.

Chapter 32

“You came.”

Anthony rose from the fire, his gaze fixed on the shadows moving at the edge of the tree line. Abigail turned, her hand instinctively brushing the Colt Paterson at her belt. However, when the first rider eased forward, she let out a breath of relief.

Black Wolf dismounted with a single fluid motion, his tall frame outlined by the stars. Behind him, Red Hawk and half a dozen more Shoshone warriors rode in silence, their ponies stamping softly in the dirt. The smell of sweat and dust clung to them, but their eyes burned with determination.

“We ride,” Black Wolf said simply.

Anthony stepped forward, gripping his old friend’s arm tightly. For the first time in days, something like hope touched his eyes.

“You don’t know what this means,” he said. “Vanburgh’s men think they’ve got us outnumbered. They won’t be counting you.”

Red Hawk swung down, adjusting the rifle slung across his back. “You say fight tonight. Then we fight tonight. Waiting brings only smoke and graves.”

Abigail moved closer as she stared at the Indians. “How many more will come?”

“Not enough,” Black Wolf admitted, his English heavy but clear. “But enough to stand.”

Deputy Brigg spat into the dirt, shifting his weight against the cottonwood. His arm was still bound tightly where Abigail had cleaned and stitched it.

“Hell, you coulda brought two, you coulda brought twenty...it all counts,” he said. “Hawk’s right. Vanburgh won’t expect you.”

Anthony nodded, though his expression stayed grim. He turned back to the fire, gesturing for the newcomers to join. “Eat. Rest your mounts,” Anthony said. “We’ve only a few hours before the camp stirs. Once their midnight watch changes, we move.”

The warriors settled in silence. A murmur of respect ran through the mixed band of fighters—tired men who suddenly sat a little straighter, knowing they weren’t alone.

Brigg shifted again, his jaw tight. “You all talk like I’m marchin’ with you. Truth is, I ain’t.”

Abigail frowned, glancing over at him. “Brigg—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off sharply. “We already had this talk. The deed don’t mean spit unless the judge signs it. Copies or no copies, if Vanburgh burns the originals, it’s his word against ours. I’m the only one who can swear I carried them safe.”

“We need you alive in Denver more than dead in that canyon,” Anthony replied. “You ride. We fight.”

Brigg’s eyes flicked between the two of them, catching the set of Abigail’s jaw and the iron weight in Hawk’s stare. At last, he let out a long breath.

“Damn it,” Brigg said. “Feels like running. Feels wrong.”

“It’s not running,” Abigail replied. “It’s survival. If you stay and fall, everything we’ve bled for is gone. You’re the voice the judge will trust. That’s worth more than one rifle tonight.”

Brigg’s mouth twisted into something like half a grin, half a snarl. “One rifle ain’t much against thirty anyway.” He looked atAnthony. “You reckon you’ll hold until law gets here? If they ever come.”

Anthony’s answer came without hesitation, though inside he felt the weight of every word.

“We’ll hold,” he said. “With steel, with fire, with the land itself if we have to. Vanburgh won’t win clean.”

The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed. Men shifted, boots scuffing dirt, horses stamping restlessly. Above them, the stars burned sharp and cold.

Abigail knelt to check Brigg’s bandage again. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Brigg said. “Might as well make myself useful. You are already putting your lives on the line as it is.”

Abigail knitted her brows together as she tightened the bandage. “Please, don't overdo it.”

“No promises,” Brigg replied, a faint smile on his face.