Chapter 6 - The Line of Fire
The hoofbeats on the limestone trail stopped just beneath the overhang of the line shack. Jacob stood motionless in the pitch-dark room, his back pressed against the rough cedar logs beside the window, his thumb resting on the hammer of Caleb Harper’s Colt. Every breath he took felt too loud, too heavy in the confined space. In the corner, the baby stirred slightly, her breathing soft and shallow against the flannel blankets. Jacob silently prayed she wouldn't wake, wouldn't cry out into the stillness of the mountain night.
"Check the lean-to," a low voice rasped from outside, carrying clearly through the unchinked gaps in the timber. "If Mercer brought the brat up here, his horse will be in the shed."
"And if he didn't?" a second voice replied, sharper, carrying the unmistakable cold edge of hired muscle. "Sheriff said to finish it either way. Vance doesn't want loose ends wandering around Dry Mesa."
Jacob didn't wait for them to dismount. Moving with silent, practiced precision, he eased the heavy wooden shutter open by a fraction of an inch. Through the narrow gap, moonlight silvered the forms of two men leading their mounts toward the back of the cabin. One of them was a stocky local hand named Roy Miller, a man who spent more time outside the saloon than working cattle; the other was a stranger with a low-slung gun belt and a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.
They were heading straight for the lean-to where Jacob’s gelding stood. If they found the horse, they would know the shack was occupied, and a wooden door would offer little protection against rifle fire at close range.
Jacob made his decision in a heartbeat. He didn't lock himself inside to wait for a siege; he had learned long ago that letting an enemy dictate the ground was a sure way to end up in the dirt.
Slipping the latch with infinite care, Jacob eased the front door open just enough to slide through. The cool night air hit his face like a dash of spring water. He stepped onto the narrow wooden porch, the boards dead silent beneath his boots, and moved along the side of the cabin toward the rear lean-to before the two men could reach his horse.
Roy Miller was just stepping into the shadows of the shed, his hand resting on the grip of his revolver, when Jacob spoke from the darkness behind him.
"I wouldn't touch that saddle, Roy."
Roy froze, his body going rigid as he half-turned, his eyes straining against the dark. "Mercer? What the hell—"
"Drop the belt, Roy. Both of you," Jacob said, his voice level, carrying the hard, flat authority of a man who had backed down from many a frontier standoff.
The stranger with the low-slung gun didn't hesitate or try to reason. With a swift, practiced motion, his hand flashed toward his holster, instincts overriding caution in the split second of surprise.
Jacob didn't aim to kill, but he didn't hesitate either. The heavy Colt barked in the narrow confines of the canyon, a blinding flash of orange fire cutting through the dark. The stranger’s shot went wild, embedding itself in the cedar wall of the shed with a sharp thud, as the man stumbled backward, dropping his gun with a sharp curse as blood bloomed across his shoulder.
Roy Miller threw his hands up instantly, his fingers splayed wide in the moonlight. "Don't shoot! Christ, Mercer, I’m just riding for the sheriff! I didn't have nothing to do with the fire eight years ago!"
"You're riding for men who are murderers, Roy," Jacob said, stepping forward, the barrel of the Colt steady and level. "And right now, you're going to turn your horses around and ride straight back down to Dry Mesa. You tell Callahan and Vance that the girl is safe, the ledger is accounted for, and if they come up this ridge again, I won't aim for the shoulder."
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Roy didn't wait for a second invitation. He grabbed the wounded gunman by the uninjured arm, hauled him cursing toward his saddle, and within seconds, the sound of retreating hoofbeats faded rapidly down the rocky trail, leaving Jacob alone in the dark with the wind and a sleeping child.
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