Chapter 6 - The Southern Road
The Prescott dust was still clinging to the sweat on Dusty’s flanks when they turned their horses south, leaving the clamor of the mining town behind them. The road to Tombstone was not a road at all, but a web of wagon ruts, cattle trails, and dry arroyos cutting through miles of blistering sun-baked brush and jagged limestone hills.
Ayana rode a few lengths ahead, her posture taut as a bowstring. The information Marshal Vance had given them—that Silas Crow held a paper signed by a retired judge giving him legal claim over Promise River—had stripped away whatever illusion of simple justice remained.
Cole nudged Dusty forward until he matched her pace. The afternoon heat shimmered off the flat earth, distorting the horizon into shimmering pools of illusory water.
“You haven't said three words since we crossed the creek,” Cole said, his voice cutting through the steady crunch of gravel under hoof.
Ayana didn't look at him immediately. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the horizon, scanning the pale brush for any sign of movement. “There is nothing to say. My father spent his entire life believing that our home belonged to the earth because we tended it, because we buried our dead under its stones, because we respected its waters.” She let out a sharp, bitter breath. “And a man in an office in Phoenix signs a piece of paper, and suddenly centuries of living are wiped away with a stroke of ink.”
“Paper can be fought,” Cole said calmly.
“With what?” Ayana turned her head, her dark eyes flashing with a raw, defensive fire. “A federal marshal in Prescott told us his jurisdiction stops at the canyon. The territorial courts are run by the same men who take bribes from cattle syndicates and land-grabbers. If we ride three hundred miles south to find a retired judge, what makes you think he won't just slam his door in our faces?”
“Because men who run away from their own corrupt decisions usually have a conscience left somewhere under the guilt,” Cole replied steadily. “Or at least they have a fear of what happens when the people they screwed over find out where they’re hiding.”
Ayana studied him, the anger in her expression slowly giving way to a weary, complex assessment. For six days, ever since he had stumbled out of Promise River in his shirtsleeves, she had expected him to cut and run at the first sign of real danger. Instead, he had stood his ground against Crow’s raiders, listened to the harsh realities of the territorial courts, and now he was tracking a corrupt former judge across three hundred miles of empty desert.
“You are a very stubborn man, Cole Ransom,” she murmured softly.
“That’s what they told me in Texas right before I lost my last job,” Cole grinned faintly. “Stubborn is usually just another word for someone who doesn't know when to quit while he’s behind.”
A reluctant, fragile smile touched Ayana’s lips, dissolving some of the heavy tension hanging between them. But the relief was short-lived. A few miles ahead, where the trail narrowed between two rocky ridges, Dusty suddenly tossed his head, ears pinned forward, blowing a sharp warning through his nostrils.
Cole instantly reined in, his hand dropping to the butt of his Colt. Beside him, Ayana froze, her eyes scanning the rock formations above them.
“What is it?” she whispered.
May you like
“Dust,” Cole said, his eyes narrowing as he pointed toward a faint plume of gray rising above the ridge a half-mile south. “And it’s not cattle.”
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