Page 83 of Anthony Hawk

“I saw her,” Brigg said.

Anthony frowned. “Saw who?”

“Abigail,” Brigg replied, his tone clipped. “Down in the thick of it. Patching up Red Hawk, of all things. Why is she here, Hawk? She was supposed to stay back with the horses.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. He holstered his Colt, shaking his head. “She didn’t listen.”

“You should’ve made her,” Brigg replied.

Anthony turned sharply, anger flashing across his face. “Like you listened? You were supposed to be halfway to Denverby now with the deed. Instead, you’re standing here, covered in blood, same as the rest of us.”

Brigg opened his mouth, then shut it again. The tension between them hung sharp, cutting through the din of battle.

Anthony glanced toward the smoke where Abigail had been last. His gut twisted, but there was no time for arguments, no time for anger. Not here, not now.

“She’s here,” he said, his voice low. “Same as you. Same as me. We’ll settle it when Vanburgh’s in the ground.”

Brigg said nothing, only chambered another round into his Winchester. The two men exchanged a brief, grim nod before turning back toward the fight.

The battle wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter 38

Anthony’s boots ground against gravel as he and Brigg pressed through the chaos. Smoke clawed at their lungs, raw. The camp was a blur of muzzle flashes and shapes darting through canvas shadows. Somewhere in the maelstrom, Vanburgh moved like a snake in tall grass, and every second wasted was a second closer to him striking first.

Anthony reloaded, the metal clicks of the Colt loud against the storm of battle. “He’ll head for the powder crates,” he said, eyes narrowed. “If he lights them—”

“We’re ash,” Brigg finished grimly, chambering another round in his Winchester. “Whole damn ridge goes sky-high.”

They slipped between a burning tent and a fallen wagon. A guard lunged at Brigg, revolver half-raised. The deputy’s shot split the man’s chest before Anthony could even lift his gun. Brigg didn’t stop moving. He didn’t even blink. He just kept low and sharp, like a man who’d decided he had nothing left to lose.

“Keep tight,” Anthony warned, checking corners. “Vanburgh’s clever. He’ll let his men bleed so he can set the match.”

Brigg grunted, sweat dripping off his brow. “Then we cut the bastard off before he gets close.”

They followed the smoke deeper toward the camp’s heart.

The powder wagons weren’t far. Anthony could feel it, sensing the shift in the fight. He knew Vanburgh too well. He knew the man wouldn’t risk being pinned in the middle. He’d either be running for the fuses now or already crouched with flint in hand.

Anthony’s gut twisted. He picked up the pace with Brigg on his flank.

Then a voice crawled out of the haze. “Well now, look what the wolves dragged in.”

Anthony froze, his Colt Navy revolver snapping toward the sound. Brigg pivoted with him, rifle raised.

From the smoke staggered a figure that should’ve been dead twice over.

Lyle Tate.

His coat was torn and blackened, his left arm bound in a filthy rag. One eye was swollen shut, and blood streaked his jaw like war paint. He looked like a man spat out by hell itself, but his grin was feral, teeth red at the edges.

A Sharps rifle hung crooked in his hand, barrel blackened but still deadly.

Anthony’s breath tightened in his chest. “Tate.”

Brigg muttered a curse under his breath.

“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” Tate drawled, his voice raw from smoke but carrying a mocking lilt. “The mountain rat and the lawman...finally learned how to share a foxhole.”