Winds of the Frontier
The wind howled through the canyon like a wounded beast, carrying with it the stench of gunpowder, scorched timber, and something worse, silence.
Silas McGraw dismounted slowly, his boots crunching against the brittle gravel. The town of West Hollow was gone. Ashes and smoke were all that remained. Saloon doors hung from broken hinges, a child's rocking horse lay shattered in the street, and above it all, the buzz of carrion birds filled the sky like a dark hymn.
He knelt by what used to be the sheriff's office, running a calloused hand through the cold black ash. Bullet holes riddled the walls. Whoever did this wasn't just after money, they wanted to erase.
Behind him, Ezekiel Boone lit a cigar with a half-burnt match and watched the sky like it owed him answers.
"Jesus," he muttered. "What kind of men do this?"
Silas didn't answer. He was already staring at the footprints, heavy, deliberate, too many to count. A gang. Armed. Riding hard. And sloppy enough to leave a trail.
"They didn't even try to cover their tracks," Silas said, standing. His voice was low, like gravel soaked in whiskey. "They want to be followed."
Ezekiel snorted. "Or they just don't give a damn."
Silas looked east. The sun was rising, but it brought no warmth.
"Either way," he said, mounting Bramble, "we ride at first light."
They rode until the sun climbed high, baking the earth and turning the horizon into a blur of heat and dust. Silas led the way, his eyes scanning the ground, the cliffs, the skies, like a man who had lived too long expecting ambush.
Ezekiel kept close, his rifle slung across his back, his silence louder than words. He wasn't much for conversation anymore. Not since his church burned. Not since his faith had been buried with his family in an unmarked grave outside Santa Gloria.
By midday, they reached a dry creekbed scattered with hoofprints. Silas dismounted and crouched beside the tracks.
"Eight, maybe ten horses," he muttered. "Fresh. Four hours ahead, give or take."
Ezekiel tipped his hat back. "We're gaining."
Just then, Bramble whinnied sharply. Silas turned. A glint of metal flashed in the distance, on the ridge above.
"Rider!" Ezekiel hissed, reaching for his rifle.
Silas didn't draw. Not yet. He watched the figure, a lone horseman, cloaked in dust, watching them from atop a rise. After a moment, the figure turned and rode off in the opposite direction.
"A scout," Silas said grimly. "They know we're coming."
Ezekiel spat into the dirt. "Good. Saves us the trouble of knocking."
Silas mounted fast. "Let's move."
They kicked up dirt as they charged forward, the land opening wide like a promise and a threat. The Doyle Gang was close, and the reckoning closer.
But Silas knew better than to think this would be simple. The West never offered justice without a cost.
And he was about to find out what price vengeance truly demanded.
