Page 92 of Anthony Hawk

“You’ll live to see them signed yourself,” she said softly, trying to put strength into the words.

Brigg huffed a laugh that turned into a cough. “Wouldn’t mind...but if I don’t, least they’re in good hands.”

Anthony sighed deeply, his eyes flicking toward the path down to the valley. “Save your strength, Deputy. We’re not burying you today.”

Brigg gave him the ghost of a smirk. “Better keep your word, Hawk.”

Anthony nodded once, grim and certain. “I will.”

Then he turned, boots crunching against gravel as he started down toward where the horses waited below, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the whispering wind through the rocks.

Chapter 41

Anthony kept his gaze low as he rode into Silver Cross. The weight of dust, sweat, and blood pressed heavily on his shoulders.

Beside him, Abigail guided Tilly with surprising steadiness for someone who hadn’t slept in what felt like days. Across the way, Brigg slumped in his saddle, his body tied to keep him upright. There was a stubborn grin flickering on his pale face as if he refused to give the town the satisfaction of seeing him broken.

Behind them trailed Red Hawk, Black Wolf, and a handful of Shoshone riders, silent and watchful.

The main street of Silver Cross was busy enough that day: miners, shopkeepers, ranchers’ wives with baskets of produce. They all froze when they caught sight of the ragged procession.

Murmurs spread quickly, whispers chasing down the boardwalk like prairie fire. Eyes followed them. They werehostile, curious, and fearful at the same time. Anthony kept his gaze forward with his jaw locked tight.

The ridge was saved, and Vanburgh’s hold over the valley had snapped. The rest of them would learn soon enough.

Abigail leaned toward him, her voice low. “They’re staring.”

“They’ll get over it,” Anthony said flatly. “Just keep your eyes on Brigg.”

“Don’t need eyes,” Brigg croaked, his voice dry. “Still here, ain’t I?”

Anthony shot him a sidelong glance. “Barely.”

Brigg’s grin widened, though it trembled at the edges.

“Barely is better than not at all,” he replied.

They slowed as they reached the crossroads at the center of town. Abigail scanned the street, her expression tightening.

“We must find somewhere to take him,” she said. “I would have suggested my clinic, but it’s...it’s not there.”

“Where would be a better place, ma’am?” Anthony asked carefully.

Abigail chewed her lip, her eyes flicking from the saloon to the sheriff’s office. Finally, her gaze landed on the undertaker’s parlor at the end of the street. She hesitated, then let out a reluctant breath.

“The undertaker’s,” she said. “It’s the only place with a proper table. Sterile enough, at least compared to the street.”

Anthony blinked at her. “The undertaker’s?”

Brigg let out a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. “Now that’s fitting,” he said. “Patch me up where they lay out corpses. Got a dark sense of humor, Doc.”

Abigail shot him a sharp look. “It wasn’t meant as a joke. It’s the only option.”

“Best damn joke I’ve heard all week,” Brigg said, shaking his head. “Let’s go visit the undertaker before he thinks I’m checking in permanent.”

“You’re impossible,” Anthony said, sighing.

“Stubborn,” Brigg corrected. “Difference matters.”