Page 85 of Anthony Hawk

Lyle Tate staggered but kept moving with his teeth red and his eyes wild. He threw the Sharps aside and yanked a heavy knife from his belt. Its blade was long, curved, and glinting cruelly in the firelight.

Anthony’s bow was still slung at his back, but the quiver was nearly dry.

His Colt was empty. He ripped the bow forward anyway, nocking one of his last arrows.

He loosed it at close range, but Tate swatted it aside with the knife, sparks flying off the steel.

The outlaw lunged.

Anthony dropped the bow as the knife slashed down, barely twisting clear. The edge bit across his sleeve, opening cloth and skin. Pain flared hot, but he shoved into Tate’s chest, forcing him back against a broken barrel.

“Always knew you weren’t untouchable!” Tate spat, slashing again.

Anthony caught his wrist, the knife inches from his face. The two men strained, boots grinding in the dirt. Tate’s strength was fueled by madness. His breath reeked of blood and smoke.

Behind them, Brigg groaned, trying to push himself up. “Hawk—”

“Stay down!” Anthony barked, teeth gritted.

Tate twisted, wrenching his wrist free. The knife scored across Anthony’s ribs, shallow but hot. He staggered, revolver still at his hip. However, before he could draw, Tate’s boot slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back.

The knife flashed above.

Anthony rolled, Colt finally in his hand. He fired point-blank. The hammer snapped on an empty chamber.

Click.

Tate laughed. “Empty, Hawk!”

The blade plunged down. Anthony caught his wrist again, straining until his muscles burned. His Colt slipped from his grip, clattering uselessly to the dirt.

For a moment, the world shrank to the glint of steel and the heat of Tate’s spit on his face.

Anthony shoved with every ounce left in him. The knife wavered. His free hand scrabbled against the ground until his fingers closed around something cold.

His own knife was attached to his gun belt.

Anthony twisted, ripping the blade from the gun belt. In the same motion, he drove it up, burying it under the outlaw’s ribs.

Tate’s eyes went wide. His breath hitched sharply, bloody froth spilling from his lips.

Anthony snarled, shoving the blade deeper until he felt it grind against bone. “You should’ve stayed dead, Tate,” he said.

Tate gurgled, the fight draining out of him. His body sagged heavily against Anthony before sliding to the dirt. The grin was gone, replaced by a dull, glassy stare.

Silence rushed in, broken only by Brigg’s labored breathing and the chaos of battle echoing farther off.

Anthony ripped the knife free and shoved Tate’s body aside. He staggered upright, chest heaving and blood slick across his shirt. His revolver lay in the dust, his bow cracked on the ground. For the first time in the fight, his hands shook.

Deputy Brigg was still on the ground, pressing a bloody hand to his side. Anthony dropped to his knees beside him.

“Hold on,” Anthony muttered, scanning the wound. The bullet had carved across the ribs but hadn’t gone through. Deep, messy, but not mortal if they kept pressure.

Brigg coughed, smearing more blood across his chin. “Guess...I’m outta this one,” he said.

Anthony clenched his jaw. “Not if I can help it.”

Brigg grabbed his sleeve, eyes fierce despite the pain. “Forget me,” he said. “Vanburgh’s out there. He’ll light the damn powder if you don’t stop him.”