The Town of Cursed Gold (Preview)

Chapter One

Redwater Plains, Kansas, October 1884

The air split with the sharp crack of the rifle, echoing like thunder across the plains. Cole “Shadow” Dalton ducked as his horse, Buckshot, continued riding hard.

“Come on, Buckshot.” Cole felt powerless as he urged his horse faster. He held tightly to his pistol as he kept low in his saddle.

The other gang members were still too far behind for him to take aim. They had better weapons and numbers on their side. Cole only had his wits and his battered old Colt that had been given to him as a gift. It would have to be enough to ensure his survival.

Behind him, their shouting grew louder. They were closing in fast. These were men who he had once considered his friends.

He took a deep breath, aimed behind him and shot. Cole had hoped that it wouldn’t get to this point, but he had no other choice. They weren’t going to let him go without a fight.

A pained yell proved that his bullet had hit its mark.

The relief didn’t last long. There were still three on his tail. Cole prayed the bandits would be arrogant enough to draw even closer. He turned around, and his hopes were dashed. They were pulling back.

The injured outlaw, Jed, had come to a stop and was cradling his arm as he cursed. As usual, Cole had taken care not to make a fatal shot. His bullet had hit the exact right place, the spot right above Jed’s elbow, which would make it hard for James to shoot again any time soon.

“We’re right behind you, Cole!” One of them, Caleb, shouted, fury clear in his voice.

Cole winced and turned to look ahead of him. The gang should know better than to engage him in a gunfight. After all, they knew firsthand that his reputation as an expert marksman was well-founded.

Instead, they’d hang back, following him relentlessly until his horse tired out and he was forced to move on foot. They’d nip at his heels, wearing him down until finally one of them could take the fatal shot.

Cole’s mind flashed back to the last robbery and the bitter words that had shattered the gang’s fragile trust. They’d been limping along ever since the death of their leader, Matthias Caldwell. Ever since then, they’d been fractured and divided. They’d been held together by an uneasy truce that was always bound to break.

A hail of bullets rained close enough to hit the ground near where Buckshot was running. It was enough to get the horse to let out a disconcerted whinny. That was too close for comfort, even for Buckshot. Cole forced Buckshot to the side, heading to narrow ravine carved deep into the earth.

This land was foreign to him, and he wasn’t sure what awaited him in the dark recesses of the ravine, but it had to be better than certain death.

Pain cut through his side every time Buckshot’s hooves hit the ground and jostled him in the saddle. They’d already been riding for a while, and they’d been tired when they went into the robbery.

“The two of us deserve a break, don’t you think, buddy?” Cole looked over his shoulder.

The gang was falling further behind, but they wouldn’t let a little distance dissuade them. It would take much more than that to get rid of them.

When they reached the edge of the ravine, Cole tugged at the reins, swung in the saddle and caught sight of the barrel of a rifle. He didn’t miss a beat. Cole fired, the hammer snapping down, but the man pulled up short and ducked.

Cole’s bullet missed him by a hair’s breadth.

“We’ve got to get rid of them!” Cole snapped, his anger bursting through him like an impatient colt. “Come on, Buckshot. We’ll have to take our chances down there.”

More shots split through the air.

Cole spotted an opening in the dimming light. A narrow path cut down to the shadowy creek bed. He urged Buckshot down the hill.

Buckshot whinnied uncertainly, his hooves slipping on the loose stones.

“Trust me, buddy,” Cole urged. “I know this doesn’t look great. It ain’t much of a plan, but we have to get rid of them.”

Cole’s vision blurred at the edges. Pain cut deeper into his side as the blood kept coming. His desperate need to escape burned hotter than the throbbing of his wound, and he kept pushing forward.

“We can’t let them win. We can’t.” He whispered the words to himself on a loop. It kept his mind focused on what needed to happen next.

Buckshot expertly navigated the steep slope until the path finally levelled. Together, they picked their way through the creek bed. Cole bit down on his bottom lip as he tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt. He fashioned a bandage and tied it tightly around his middle, doing what he could to stop the bleeding.

In the distance, the men shouted as they reached the ravine’s edge.

“Don’t follow me,” Cole muttered, quietly pleading for them to give up.

He didn’t slow down, not for a moment. There would be no relief until he’d left this land far behind and never came back. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. He was running away like a coward. It was the very last thing he ever thought he would do. However, sometimes staying alive required unsavory sacrifices.

Their voices grew fainter, and hope glimmered in his heart. Perhaps their murderous fury wouldn’t outweigh their common sense. After all, were they willing to risk getting lost and injured in the ravine just to get their hands on him?

Buckshot harumphed.

“I know you’re tired, buddy,” Cole said gently, “but if you have any love for me, you’ll keep going. Please.”

Buckshot kept going, but his pace slowed down a little.

“Fair,” Cole said, patting Buckshot’s side. “We’ll go slower. We need to be careful. I know it may look like it, but we ain’t out of this yet, partner.”

Cole’s heart clenched as he looked up at the darkening sky. Twilight was quickly giving way to night. The plains whispered around them, alive with endless activity as small animals ran through the undergrowth. Owls and bats swooped low, searching for their nightly meals, oblivious to Cole’s struggle.

***

Sometime near the end of the night, Cole slid from his saddle. He stumbled onto flat ground and rested his back against a boulder. Buckshot was panting in exhaustion and didn’t move an inch. Neither of them could take another step forward.

Instead, they stayed where they were. Cole’s eyes drifted shut, his fatigue finally winning. In that moment, he didn’t care if the rest of the gang found him. All that mattered was that he could close his eyes for a little.

When he woke with a start, the sun was already peaking over the horizon, washing the horizon with a brilliant golden light that reminded him that everything would be all right. He shivered as he sat up and looked around. The wound at his side tore slightly, but the bleeding had stopped.

His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he made his way over to Buckshot who was still sleeping restfully. Cole dug through his saddlebag and produced a small piece of hardtack. He grimaced but bit into it dutifully.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he muttered to himself as he shook his head.

His body ached from sleeping on the ground, but his short rest had done him a world of good. He surveyed the land, and was cheered to see that they hadn’t been followed.

“They’re probably still looking, but they’re far behind now,” Cole said.

Although there was no one to talk to, it was still nice to break the silence somehow. If he managed to escape his previous colleagues, then he’d be facing a lot of quiet plains. Cole ran a hand through his hair as he finished his hard tack.

Sweat had dried and crusted over his skin, creating a shell of dirt and grime that itched fiercely. He turned around, looking for any sign of civilization.

To his relief, a spire of smoke rose up in the distance.

“Come on, Buckshot,” Cole said gently, patting his horse’s neck. “Let’s go find people.”

The horse grunted in annoyance. Cole had to press his heels into Buckshot’s side four times before the horse finally snorted and pulled forward.

“Thank you,” Cole said.

Buckshot snorted again, making his feelings clear.

They made their way through the tall grass. Cole kept a sharp eye on the endless tall grass. His mind worked quickly as he searched for any sign of danger. Once, he had been part of a unit that looked out for each other. They had to stick together. Their reputation usually preceded them, and if they were fresh off a job, they’d be running from the law.

Cole snorted. The law. When the land was ruled by corrupt, greedy men, then the law was nothing more than a way for the men in charge to get their own way. It was sad to say that in the west, true justice usually wasn’t delivered by a man in a badge.

Cole pressed his hand to his side as the pain flared up again. He was so tired of running.

Memories swirled around his mind. Laughter around campfire echoed in his ears, and the metallic taste of gunpowder hung everywhere. A hollow feeling of guilt occupied his chest. There was no going back now. He buried his feelings deep down, hoping they would stay there so he wouldn’t have to think about it too deeply any time soon.

The smell of smoke cut through his melancholy. His nose twitched as he sat up straighter. This was more than the thin stream of smoke from some rancher’s chimney. It lingered in the air like the aftermath of a wildfire.

Alarm bells rang in his ears, but he urged Buckshot forward.

The horse whinnied and came to a stop, refusing to pass the fence that came up in front of them. Cole slipped from his saddle and took the leads in his hand.

“Something ain’t right, Buckshot,” Cole said, his tone full of unease.

He kept going, opening the gate in front of them and entering the property. They made their way through the cottonwoods until they were met by a chilling sight. A blackened skeleton stood against the blue sky. A few charred beams leaned against each other, a pitiful remainder of what must have been a large ranch house.

Cole’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t seen the fire in the distance the previous night, which meant the flames had probably died down the previous afternoon. From the way the wreck was still smoking, it was clear that the fire had burned fiercely.

His gaze went to the ground where the churned ground told a story of panic and struggle. There weren’t any buckets nearby, which meant that no one tried to put it out.

That’s when he saw the body.

Bile rose up in the back of his throat. He quickly averted his gaze as he pressed his hand to his mouth.

It was impossible to get used to the sight of such violence. Murder wasn’t part of his code. He may have been an outlaw, but that didn’t mean he was a degenerate. Cole took a deep breath to steady himself.

A man was lying face down by the remains of the porch. One arm was bent beneath him, while the other was outstretched, as if the man had been reaching for something. Cole held his breath as he pressed his fingers to the man’s neck.

His shoulders slumped as the truth he’d suspected was confirmed. The man was dead. His skin was cold, which meant he’d been gone for hours already.

“What happened here?” Cole asked, scanning the smoldering ruins for any sign of the truth.

Soot covered everything, and ash coated the ground like snow. He nudged a charred piece of wood with his boot. A thunk interrupted the deathly silence.

Cole turned on his heel, his hand reaching for his pistol at his side. The sound came again, and he followed it a few feet away from the house. He frowned as he came across a curious sight, a perfect square in the dirt. He tapped it with his foot, and was rewarded by the hollow thump of wood.

A trapdoor.

Another thunk emanated from beneath the wood.

A breeze picked up and rushed through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle and dance around. Cole crouched over the trapdoor. The air was unnaturally still.

Perhaps he should have walked away, but Cole was never good at leaving well enough alone.

The trapdoor creaked as he pulled it open. His hand remained on his pistol, ready to take action should he reveal yet another threat. Whatever happened next, he would meet it face-to-face.

Chapter Two

A shriek emanated from inside the space as Cole peered over the side. Dim morning light spilled down the wooden ladder that led down to a cellar. The floor was made from packed earth, and shelves covered every wall, filled with preserves and jars of grain.

His heart jumped to his throat at the sight of a little girl trembling as she hid her face in her mother’s face. The child held a ratty blanket to her body. A man stood up, his hands held up in surrender as he glared up at Cole. The woman hid her face in her daughter’s hair, whimpering softly. Soot covered their bodies, and their clothes were torn and singed. They were in a pitiful state.

“I ain’t here to hurt you.” The words slipped out of his mouth as he took his hand away from his pistol.

The man tilted his head at Cole in surprise. “Who are you?”

“Cole…” He’d been about to use his full name, but he thought the better of it.

There were wanted posters with the name “Cole Dalton” plastered all over the west. It was better not to risk revealing his true identity, especially not when the family was already so jumpy. They’d clearly endured something awful.

“What are you doing here, Cole?” the man asked with a scowl, as if embarrassed to be caught at the bottom of what looked like a cellar.

“Passing through.” Cole held out his hand for the man to take so Cole could help him out of the cellar.

The man hesitated. “Is anyone still out there?”

“Just me and Buckshot.”

He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder just as Buckshot wandered closer and stuck his head down the cellar opening, snorting in surprise when he noticed the people inside.

The man nodded somberly and pulled himself out of the cellar, keeping a sharp eye out for his attackers. When he emerged from the ground, he held out his hand for Cole to shake.

“Arthur Parker. Everyone calls me Art.”

Cole shook Art’s hand, but Art was already looking around, surveying the damage. When he caught sight of man lying near the ruins of the house, he turned an alarming shade of green and turned aside to throw up.

When he looked up, a look of devastation settled over his face as he gazed at the dead man. “Timothy…”

Cole couldn’t bear to look back at the slain man. “He part of your family?”

Art swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. “My brother. He was supposed to go get help. Now I know why he never returned.”

A lump of emotion formed in Cole’s throat. He pulled a flask from his belt and handed it to the man, clapping him on the shoulder as he averted his gaze. It was difficult seeing the depth of this stranger’s grief, as it hit too close to home.

Art accepted the flask and took a deep drink. He winced before handing it back to Cole.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cole said gruffly. “It’s never easy losing kin.”

Art looked away, his expression contorting as he sniffed. For an awful moment, it seemed that he was about to break down sobbing. Cole swallowed hard as he took a step away, trying to give Art as much privacy as possible.

“What happened here?” Cole asked, looking at the smoldering wreckage. “Who could have done this to you?”

“The devil and his riders,” Art said darkly. “Although, in these parts he’s known as Silas Reynolds.”

A shiver of unease ran down Cole’s back. He’d heard of Red Jackal. Everyone had. While most outlaws had some sort of code that guided them, everyone knew that Silas had none. There were hundreds of stories of his exploits, all ending in bloodshed and pain. Silas was a rare breed of criminal who didn’t act out of necessity or poverty but rather because he enjoyed it.

Nausea crept up Cole’s throat as he looked away. He needed to keep a low profile. The last thing he needed was to attract the attention of a man like that, especially since his own gang had butted heads with Silas’ men over territory before with such tragic results. An idea flickered into the back of his mind as he imagined exacting vengeance on Silas, but he pushed it away forcefully. Now that he was on his own, there was no way he could fight against such a force.

However, that didn’t mean that he could just leave this family stranded on their own.

“How far is the nearest town?” Cole asked.

Buckshot came up behind Cole and rested his head on Cole’s shoulder, letting out a huff to let Cole know exactly what he felt about the situation. The horse hated ash and fires. Whenever the men built a campfire, Cole always had to make sure that Buckshot was hitched elsewhere so he wouldn’t kick up a fuss. It wasn’t a surprise that Buckshot wanted to get away from the ruins of the ranch as quickly as possible.

“Ironwood.” Art ran a hand through his hair. “It’s about half a day away.”

Cole winced. No wonder no one had seen the flames. “Any neighbors I can get for you?”

Art shook his head. “We’re the only ranch out this side for miles. This is… was… our family ranch. It’s just been us out here for as long as I can remember.”

“Art?” a woman called. “Is it safe?”

“Hold on, Mary,” Art said with a wince. “Do you mind…” Art gestured at Timothy and Cole looked at him in confusion. “I don’t want my wife and daughter to see him like that. Timothy was like Becca’s second father. She shouldn’t have to see her uncle lying in the dirt.”

Art’s voice broke on the last few words, and he rubbed the back of his head as he visibly fought back tears.

“Of course.” Cole inclined his head as he made his way over to Timothy.

He stood over the man, considering what could be done. “Could you get that blanket from your daughter?”

Art nodded. “Becca… I need that blanket, please, honey.”

A few moments later, Art handed the blanket to Cole, his eyes trained on the ground. Cole quickly pulled Timothy further into the wreckage until he was out of view, then covered the man with the torn, smelly blanket.

He knelt at Timothy’s side, his heart as heavy as a rock in his chest. “Rest well,” he murmured, as he covered Timothy’s face.

Cole took a moment to collect himself as he stood up. Fury raced through his veins as he turned his back on Timothy. He had no time for bullies.

“Mary, this is Cole,” Art introduced Cole to his wife as Cole approached.

Mary nodded at Cole, shaking his head as she looked around at the remains of her home. She was thin woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Art and Mary appeared to be in their late twenties, just a few years younger than Cole, and Becca, who was peeking out from behind her mother’s legs, couldn’t have been older than ten.

“I’m sorry to meet you this way, ma’am,” Cole said gently.

She didn’t seem to notice he’d spoken as she stepped toward the house, as if she was in a daze.

“Why would Silas do this?” Cole asked, gesturing at the house. “It doesn’t seem like his usual target.”

Art’s face darkened.

“He’s looking for the gold,” Mary said as Art seemed to consider his words.

“Mary!” Art hissed.

“Oh, who cares?” Mary threw her hands in the air. “What more can they take from us? We lost everything because of a stupid legend!”

Cole looked between them in confusion.

Art sighed and crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at the ground. “There’s this legend around town that a man named McGraw. Apparently, a couple of decades ago, the government was moving money through these here parts to fund the war effort. Only, McGraw and his men heard about it and swiped the gold. The army didn’t take too kindly to that and hunted him down. He was hanged in the town square.”

“What does that have to do with what Silas did here?” Cole asked, gesturing at the house.

“No one ever found the gold,” Art said, glaring at the ground.

Cole frowned as he wiped his nose. The acrid stench of fire hung heavily in the air, and he was desperate to get away from it.

“People say that Art’s granddaddy was part of the gang when he was a boy,” Mary continued, her voice a low murmur.

“Silas thought you might be able to tell him where the gold is,” Cole surmised.

Art scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. “I don’t know why he came here. Silas has his hideout around these here parts. Every now and then, he comes out of his hidey hole to make our lives a misery.”

“I suppose y’all don’t have a sheriff ‘round these here parts.” Cole shifted his weight uncomfortably.

If the area was unprotected, he could have an easier time moving about without fear of capture. However, it also meant his former gang could capture him and no one would do a thing about it. And if Silas had truly marked this area out as his territory, then it would be smart to get out of it as soon as possible.

“This has nothing to do with that old legend,” Art said firmly. “They took everything we had. Horses. Food. Tools. We don’t have nothing but the clothes on our backs and a few supplies down in the cellar. We’re ruined.”

Mary stifled a cry as she pressed a hand to her face.

“Where’s Uncle Timothy?” Becca asked, looking up at her mother.

Art and Mary looked at each other, communicating silently as only a married couple could.

“He said he was going to find help,” Becca prompted helpfully.

“Becca, honey…” Art looked over at Cole who quickly averted his gaze. “Uncle Timothy… he’s gone the same way as Granddaddy.”

Becca stared up at her father uncomprehendingly for a few moments before her lower lip began trembling. She dropped to the ground, her eyes fixed on the ground. Becca had her back turned to the wreckage of her home, as if she couldn’t bring herself to look.

Cole’s heart clenched as he took a step toward her. It felt wrong to be there, as if he was intruding on the family’s most private moment. When he got closer to Becca, he saw her cradling a bronze medallion of some sort.

The family’s misery weighed heavily on his shoulders. If he was a smarter man, he would have gotten on his horse and ridden far, far away. Only a fool lingered in the Red Jackal’s territory.

“He won’t stop until someone stops him,” Cole said, looking over at Art and Mary.

“And who would do such a thing?” Art snorted.

Cole shoved his hands into his pockets. He needed to get moving before his former gang showed up, ready to shoot him for his betrayal. However, he couldn’t keep running. Would he spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder?

“What about your town?” Cole asked. “Ain’t y’all tired of running scared?”

“What?” Mary scoffed. “What are a bunch of farmers and storekeepers going to do against Silas and his men? All that would do is turn us wives into widows.”

“How is this any better?” Art asked tiredly.

“That’s what Timothy thought,” Mary spat, her eyes brimming with tears. “Look how that turned out!”

Becca whimpered and covered her face with her hands.

“Mary!” Art hissed, looking meaningfully at his daughter.

Mary winced as she went over to Becca and put an arm around the little girl’s shoulders, murmuring something in her ear.

“I hate to ask…” Art approached Cole, wringing his hands as he spoke. “We need to get out of here. I don’t know if Silas will be back and if he does return, I don’t want to be anywhere near here.”

Cole looked over at where Buckshot was nudging the ash-covered grass with his nose. “Mary and Becca can ride on Buckshot, but we’ll have to walk.”

“It will only take a day to get there,” Art pleaded. “We have friends who will take us in for the night. I just need time to come up with a plan.”

Cole nodded. He didn’t have anywhere better to be. Besides, he couldn’t leave the family out there on their own. He would never be able to live with the guilt.

“Y’all can’t keep living like this,” Cole said, shaking his head in disgust.

“What else are we supposed to do?” Art asked, running a hand down the front of his face. “This is our home. Our families have worked the ground since before we were born. My parents are buried here. This is where my brother will be buried.”

“Fight back,” Cole urged, his voice carrying hints of the anger he was trying to push away.

His memories rushed back at him, the fire burning high above his head as someone screamed out in terror. Cole pushed the memories away. As usual, he tried to keep his mind from guessing who had screamed.

“Things will only get worse if you let him get away with this,” Cole promised. “A man without a code will never be satisfied. He needs to be stopped.”

Art’s eyes blazed with indignation. “Look at where that got my brother. We can rebuild. We’re alive. It’s easy for you to come here and tell us what to do, but you ain’t got skin in the game. Do you have a child?”

Cole shook his head.

“It’s all well and good to talk about fighting back when you’ve got nothing to lose,” Art pointed out. “Thank you for agreeing to help us, but you can’t come in here and fix things.”

Cole couldn’t argue with that. He merely nodded and went to get Buckshot. Despite Art’s insistence, Cole couldn’t stop himself from staring at the burnt ranch. What was the point in rebuilding when it would only burn down again?

Art gathered Becca and Mary, helping them onto Buckshot, while Cole trailed behind them. The injustice of the situation made him burn with theory. And now that he had stopped running, he was face with a simple question. What now?

Cole was sick of running. But more than that, he was sick of letting men like Silas Reynolds rule through fear and intimidation.

The same question ran through his mind in a loop. What now? What now? 

He couldn’t come up with a satisfying answer. After all, he was all by himself. What could one man do to even the scales of justice?

Chapter Three

Cole continuously searched the golden plains as they made their way through the wilderness. Mary sat astride Buckshot, holding Becca close to her. None of them said anything as they continued steadily on.

In their tense state, the crunch of dry grass underfoot was much too loud, fueling the prickle of unease and uncertainty that lingered over Cole. Pressure mounted from all sides, making it hard for Cole to breathe normally.

How long would he be on edge? Although he didn’t have a definite answer, he was certain that it wouldn’t be any time soon. As long as the gang was hot on his heels, he’d have to keep a sharp eye out.

As they walked, the trail became narrower as it led across a rocky outcrop. The ground was covered in large rocks that they had to dodge to keep from falling. The long grass gave way to scraggly bushes that seemed to rise like claws out of the ground.

A sharp rattling cut through the silence. Cole immediately froze, the sound was instantly recognizable. His hand went to his pistol as his senses sharpened.

“Watch out—” Before he could complete his warning, Buckshot let out a sharp, frightened cry.

He reared slightly, causing Becca to scream in fright while Mary grabbed hold of Buckshot’s mane to keep from tumbling off.

Cole spotted the source of Buckshot’s frightened reaction, a diamondback rattlesnake, its body coiled and ready to strike. Its tail shook warningly, its rattle echoing through the air like a percussion instrument.

The horse snorted, his fear evident as he stepped back then to the side, his movements jerky. Cole held tightly to the reins, keeping a sharp eye on the snake. There was no room for mistakes now.

From the corner of his eye, Cole spotted a large branch. He bent down slowly, knowing that one wrong move could result in a painful death. There were various remedies and medicines that might save a man’s life, but it all depended on getting the help in time. They were just shy of the middle of nowhere, so there wasn’t any question of an antidote.

The snake’s tongue flicked out, its eerie yellow eyes fixated on Cole. They were locked in a standoff, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Cole’s fingers closed around the branch. He picked it up and nudged the snake’s tail. It hissed and lunged forward. Cole was prepared for the action and knocked the snake to the side, sweeping it off the trail.

The snake hissed again, but quickly disappeared into the underbrush, its tail rattling as it escaped.

Cole let out a heavy breath, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. “Well, that settles that.”

He turned to assess the family’s reaction and make sure they were doing all right. Mary’s lips were pressed into a thin line while Becca studied Cole with interest.

Everyone seemed all right. When he tugged at Buckshot’s reins, the horse grunted. He moved forward, but raised his right leg, limping heavily as he tried to get closer to Cole.

“What’d you do, boy?” Cole muttered worriedly.

He bent down, inspecting Buckshot’s leg. When he reached out to touch it, Buckshot whinnied and pulled his leg away.

“He must have hurt himself when he landed,” Art said, glancing back at the rocks. “Shucks, we’re just flat outta luck these days.”

Cole winced as he patted Buckshot’s flank. “I can’t risk letting y’all ride him when he’s in this condition. I’m sorry, Mary and Becca, but you’re going to have to walk from here.”

“Awh, sorry Buckshot,” Becca said, sliding from the saddle and rubbing the horse’s neck gently.

They continued their journey, picking their way through the outcrop. Cole watched as Buckshot limped, obviously struggling with his leg. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, but they couldn’t stop. If they got caught, then things would only get worse for Buckshot.

The horse would never allow anyone else in the gang to ride him. They’d shoot him for causing trouble, which was simply out of the question. Buckshot and Cole needed to keep going if they wanted to live.

Somehow, the horse seemed to realize this truth and didn’t give any trouble despite his injury. While he did his best to keep up a rapid pace, they still had to take frequent breaks.

Art and Mary walked ahead, talking in low voices among themselves as Becca trailed Buckshot, picking flowers from the land.

“How long does it usually take y’all to get to Ironwood?” Cole asked, looking over at Becca.

She shrugged. “Usually only half a day, but that’s when we’re riding. Now that we’re on foot, it could take longer.”

Cole winced and looked over his shoulder. He could almost sense the gang closing in on him, heading right for him. What would they do when they found the ruins of the ranch?

They pressed on, making slow but steady progress. Eventually, the land changed from rocky to soft, and from plains to forest. A mountain loomed overhead, watching them pass by like an old man leaning on a staff.

A breeze rushed through the trees, whispering something unintelligible and causing the leaves to tremble. Cole shuddered uneasily as he looked over his shoulder. It was getting harder to keep any eye out for other people.

The sun climbed high overhead, beating down on them and causing them all to perspire. Their regular breaks helped to catch their breath, but it didn’t stop the heat from sapping their strength.

Cole kept scanning the tree line, the uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck telling him that they were being watched. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell if it was a baseless suspicion or an actual threat.

When they stopped again under a cluster of trees, Cole approached Art, checking to make sure that Mary and Becca couldn’t hear them.

“Do you reckon they could be following us?”

The color drained from Art’s skin as he looked around in fear. “I’m not sure… No one knows where their hideout is. For all we know, we could be riding right past them.”

“Do you think they’d do anything?” Cole crossed his arms over his chest.

Art’s jaw clenched as he looked down at the ground. “I don’t know. I never thought they’d burn down my ranch and murder my brother, but here we are.”

Cole grimaced sympathetically. Art’s grief was carved into the lines in his face. It saturated every movement and expression. Cole wished he could say something profound to comfort the man, but words failed him.

“Is there another way into town?” Cole asked. “This trail’s too open.”

“We could go around the mountain, but it will take us longer,” Art sighed. “And this is usually the busiest trail leading into town. If we take another road, we risk being more isolated.”

“What are the chances that a passerby will help us?” Cole pointed out. “It might be safer to take the long route into town and avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Besides, at the pace we’re going, we’re only going to get to Ironwood tomorrow.”

Art’s shoulders slumped as he turned to look at his wife and daughter. “Fine. I suppose you have a point. It’s not like we have anything waiting for us in Ironwood. The only problem is that the mountain path is steep and rocky. Your horse might have trouble going up there.”

Cole scratched the back of his neck. “What do you think? Perhaps if he rests during the night then he’ll feel better in the morning. A longer journey might mean more danger.”

Art rubbed his chin as he considered Cole’s words. Their situation didn’t leave much room for error. Whatever they did next could very well mean the difference between life and death.

Besides, the family had no idea that Cole was being chased, too. He tried to think of the right words to tell them, but he also didn’t want to spook them. If it came down to it, he’d make them take Buckshot while he distracted the gang.

Cole’s senses strained, listening out for the rustle of leaves or the snap of a twig that would warn him of an imminent attack.

“I should ask Mary, too,” Art said, running a hand through his hair.

Cole nodded and stepped aside, allowing Art to move past and go to his wife. Instead, Art motioned for Mary to join them. She left Becca by the horse, and Art quickly explained the situation.

“I’d rather take my chances in the wild than face that gang again,” Mary said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The only reason we survived that attack was because we had somewhere to hide.”

Art ducked his head, his fists clenching at his side. None of them said anything for a moment as the truth of her words settled over them.

“Silas and his men have no reason to hide,” Art concluded. “This here is their territory. I don’t see why they’d be on an isolated road. You’re right, they’re more likely to be here. The other trail might be longer and more difficult, but it’s better than a bullet in the back.”

“All right.” Cole clapped his hands together. “We’ve got ourselves a heading. Art, lead the way.”

They continued down the trail until they reached a fork in the road. Art turned to the right, where the trail was narrower and rockier.

“I’ve never gone down this road before,” Becca mused, tilting her head as she walked.

“Oh?” Cole looked down at her. He’d never spent any time around kids and wasn’t sure how to interact with them. “Are you scared?”

Becca shrugged listlessly as she surveyed the scenery. “Yesterday was scarier.”

His heart clenched in his chest as he looked away. “I’m sorry you went through that. Although, if you think about it… you’re going to be so much stronger now.”

Becca frowned and looked up at him in confusion.

“Think about it, you survived,” Cole pointed out. “If you can get through that, then you can get through anything. I’ll bet you were very brave. You were brave yesterday, and from now on it will be easier to be brave when you’re scared. You’re a survivor. Don’t you forget that.”

“Uncle Timothy didn’t make it     .”

Her words were matter-of-fact and hit him square in the chest. He winced and averted his gaze. His attempt at being profound had exploded in his face. Cole pressed his lips together, determined not to make things worse by opening his mouth again.

As they made their way up the steep path, the sun began to descend until the shadows lengthened around them. Their movements became slower and slower until they finally spotted a clearing between the rocks and trees.

“How about we stop here for the night?” Art asked, surveying the area carefully.

Cole nodded. He was still watching the trees. His suspicions hadn’t eased, instead they were growing stronger by the minute.

Art and Mary gathered firewood while Cole went through the last of his rations. Before long, they were sitting beside a roaring fire, chewing on sticks of cured meat. Becca’s soft snores filled the air, providing a comforting noise against the tense atmosphere. He would have to get rations in Ironwood before moving on the next day.

Buckshot was sleeping nearby, his head bowed and his hoof resting gently on the ground.

“How bad is it in Ironwood?” Cole asked when he finished his rations.

“They burned the church down last spring,” Art said heavily, staring into the fire.

“They take any man who stands up to them and leave him for the buzzards,” Mary sniffed.

Cole glanced at Becca, glad that she was spared from having to hear such harsh truths.

“There’s about twenty of them,” Art explained. “The townspeople outnumber them, but the gang has more weapons and they’re more organized.”

Cole shook his head in bewilderment. He was an outlaw himself, but he couldn’t imagine hurting people for the fun of it. There were some men who were just detestable.

“Hopefully you’ll be safer in Ironwood with your neighbors around you,” Cole said gently.

“There ain’t no such thing as safe in Ironwood,” Mary said sardonically. “We all do the best we can to get through each day, and there’s nothing we can do beyond that.”

Cole lowered his gaze, the injustice of the situation eating at him. A twig snapped in the distance and he immediately turned around, searching the darkness for danger. Nothing happened, and Cole forced himself to relax.

He had to get some sleep that night otherwise he’d collapse from exhaustion. However, he got the sneaking feeling that he wasn’t going to get any rest, no matter how much his body protested. His mind was too alert, waiting for any sign of their pursuers.

“The townspeople have to find a way to fight back,” Cole said, shaking his head slowly.

“Not this again.” Art ran a hand down the front of his face. “How? Tell us how, and we’ll do what we can. Don’t you think people have been saying that for ages? Well, they used to. Only now, they’re too scared. And for good reason.”

“These are our problems,” Mary sighed, “don’t worry yourself with them. Just get out of Ironwood before it’s too late.”

A rustling sounded from a nearby bush, and they looked up to find a man emerging from the dark. Cole jumped to his feet, pulling his pistol from his belt. Art cursed loudly, and pushed Mary and Becca behind them.

Becca woke up with a cry, startling Buckshot who let out a high-pitched whinny.

“Peace…” The man stepped into the light, holding up his hands in surrender, glancing between the three of them.

Cole was relieved that it wasn’t a member of his former gang. The stranger was tall, dressed in a shirt of tanned deer hide, decorated with colorful beads and a breastplate made from long polished bone hair pipes strung together with leather. His thick black hair hung down his back, almost concealing the Winchester rifle that peeked over his shoulder.

“I’m alone,” the man said in a deep, resonant voice.

His dark eyes glanced between the three of them. Two streaks of ochre paint ran from his eyes to his jaw.

“What do you want from us?” Cole asked carefully.

“I’ve been following,” he said, gesturing at them, “and listening. I think we can make a deal.”

Cole swallowed hard, glancing back at Art who watched the warrior with clear disdain and suspicion. When Cole looked back at the stranger. The man gazed back at him with quiet confidence, as if he carried the answer to all their problems.