“All right, let’s go.”
I heave open the door and we race back into the night. My heart is kicking wild in my chest, my eyes checking every alley we pass for a Rider. Jesse’s keeping up all right, but he’s got a hunch to his shoulders, like he’s still feeling the blow of that shovel to his stomach.
Ahead, smoke from the Tiger billows, glowing silver-white by the moon as the townsfolk battle the fire with water. They’s done a fair job. The flames are surrendering, and the worst of it seems to be contained. Still, the smell gets to me. The saloon ain’t nothing like home, and yet so much is the same—the scent of burning wood and scorched blankets and thick, heavy smoke. Pa flashes before me. The rope creaking as he swings. His eyes wide and vacant. Then I’m seeing that charred stagecoach, the blackened bodies. Roses etched into skin. I buckle to my knees. Jesse grabs me at the elbow and hauls me upright.
When we get to the parlor, Will ain’t there, and neither are our horses.
My heart sinks straight down to my boots, but then there’s a whistle. I glance round and find Will waiting in an alley ’cross the way. He’s atop Rio, and Rebel and Silver are standing there saddled as Mutt yaps anxious by their heels.
Jesse and me dart ’cross the street, but not stealthily enough.
“There! That’s them!” someone shouts. Will fires over our heads as we run to our horses.
I step into Silver’s stirrup and am urging her on before I’s even swung my other leg over her back. Behind me, I hear pounding hooves and know the Coltons are with me. We tear up the main street and pass the Tiger. Water barrels are dropped as unsuspecting folk dive outta our way. Rose Riders I can’t make out shoot and curse from the streets and the roofs. Their bullets chase us, but we don’t even try to fire back no more. We just slap our reins and heel our horses and ride east, leaving Phoenix behind as fast as the devil can.
No more than a few yards beyond the outskirts of town, it’s getting hard to see. The moon’s stuck behind a lump of clouds, and there ain’t much left to go by. The last lanterns lighting our way faded out when the streets did, and it took only a block before the dying fire at the Tiger didn’t ’luminate the ground no more.
We cut southeast, racing through land I reckon belongs to some rancher. We don’t never see the homestead, though, or his cattle or horses. A nearly blind mile or two later, we come upon the Salt River, and it’s a blessing. Weak moonlight flickers and gleams off the water, bouncing where it trickles over pebbles and snakes between grass. It’s just enough to show us the way. Here, the land ’long the bank is pitched and uneven, full of brush and brambles and rocks. I got a notion all three of us will be thrown from our horses any second on account of a poor step. But it ain’t like we can stop, or even slow for that matter. Gunshots keep popping behind us, Rose’s gang riding hard. I glance over my shoulder, but alls I can see is a gray plume of dirt a half mile back—a miniature dust storm.
“What do we do?” Will shouts from Rio.
Jesse don’t say nothing, and I know as well as him that we can’t ride endlessly. No horse can fly like this forever. I reckon Will knows it too and he’s just talking to keep hisself busy. I’s noticed he likes to do that.
Silver leaps a patch of brush, and at the crest of the jump I see something that lifts my heart: a ramshackle shanty of a home, roof half buckled, sitting ’cross the river where the bank rises a touch. It’s abandoned for sure. If we get there first and set ourselves up right, we might have a chance. Six Riders ’gainst three of us. Maybe seven of ’em if that fella I clubbed lived through the blow and managed to get to his horse with a bad knee. It ain’t the prettiest odds, but we’ll have shelter and a perch. Them, low ground and open land. Riding atop their horses, they’ll be like bottles on a fence.
“Abandoned home!” I point it out to the boys.
Jesse nods and guides Rebel into the river.
It’s wide here, and looks to be deep so far as desert rivers go. I just hope it ain’t deep enough that the horses need to swim. I don’t reckon I can hold both my Colt and Winchester above my head and manage to stay in the saddle.
I give Silver a nudge in the flank, and she wades in after the others. It’s slow going for everyone but Mutt, who leads the way easy. Not even halfway ’cross the river and I can sense Silver bracing ’gainst the current. Water’s rising over her knees. When my boots flood, I reach down and pull my rifle from the saddle scabbard, holding it in my lap.
Please don’t be much deeper. Please.
Silver trudges on. The current tugs at my stirrups. Water creeps toward Silver’s ribs, then flank, and right when I’m certain all my gear and ammo’s ’bout to be soaked, the water line starts retreating. We’s crossed the worst of it.
“Good girl, Silv,” I says, urging her on. As she climbs out on the opposite bank I kick her back into a gallop and chase after Mutt and the Coltons.
Unsure what kind of standoff we might find ourselves in, we can’t risk letting the horses roam—they might get spooked and run off—so we lead ’em round back and secure their reins on fencing that once surrounded a chicken coop.
Staying low and quiet, the three of us grab our guns and ammo and slip into the house, taking Mutt with us. The place ain’t been lived in for a good long while. There’s a sorry-looking table ’gainst the back wall, and some failing chairs, but we don’t got enough light to make out much more of the interior. Not that it matters. I’m only concerned with the windows, and when I examine the wooden shutters I nearly beam. There’s a cross cut into the two that flank the door. Same goes for the window of each adjoining wall.
“Religious folk?” Will says when I point ’em out.
“It ain’t got nothing to do with God.” I bring my rifle up and aim her out the carved cross. “Up, down, side to side,” I says, changing my aim to demonstrate. “We had ’em in our shutters too, case of Indian raids or bad men.”
“Well, it’s smart,” Jesse says, “and I pray God’s on our side tonight.” He goes to the other front window with a rifle he’d had strapped to Rebel, and Will takes the west-facing side window with his six-shooters.
I make sure I got as many cartridges as possible jammed into my belt, plus extras nearby. I load up my Winchester and double-check my Colt. Then I lean ’gainst the musty wood wall and scan the Salt River Valley before us.
I don’t got a perfect view from the confines of the cross port, but I should be able to see that damn cloud of dust.
“Here they come,” Jesse says.
Scanning again, I spot ’em. There’s no dust cloud, ’cus they ain’t in dust to kick up. They’re crossing the river. From here, they look like seven dark ducks paddling. Meaning that Rider I shot and clubbed somehow managed to rejoin the posse. I shoulda shot him dead.