Chapter 5 - The Turning at Dead Man’s Creek
By late afternoon, the pursuers below had given up the immediate search of the lower ridges, turning their horses back toward the main trail that led toward the abandoned mining settlement at Dead Man’s Creek.
Rowan and Elira followed at a distance, moving parallel along the high rim until they reached the overlook above the creek basin. Below them sat the cluster of weathered wooden shacks and rusted ore-carts that had once been a booming silver camp before the vein ran dry. Now, it served as the staging ground for the syndicate’s men.
And more importantly, it was where Elira’s horse and the small pack containing her remaining belongings were being held at the livery stable.
“We need those supplies,” Rowan said, pointing down toward the corral. “And you need a fresh horse if we’re going to make the territorial line before the end of the week.”
“It’s a trap,” Elira warned, studying the layout below. Two men sat outside the main cabin playing cards near a barrel fire, while a third kept watch near the corral gate. “They know I’ll come back for my things, or at least for the mare.”
“Then we don’t sneak in,” Rowan said calmly.
Elira frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“We split up,” Rowan said, his plan forming with the cold logic of a man who knew how to manage unruly stock. “I’ll walk down into the camp from the main road—in broad daylight, looking like a lost drifter looking for work. I’ll draw their attention toward the saloon. While they’re busy figuring out what I’m doing, you drop down from the back ridge, cut the mare loose from the corral, and meet me at the old water tower past the mill.”
Elira stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “You’ll walk right into their hands. They beat you once already.”
“They beat me when I was tied to a post and outnumbered five to one,” Rowan corrected, a sharp glint of iron in his blue eyes. “This time, I’ll pick the ground.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him it was too risky, that she couldn't afford to lose the only person who hadn't tried to betray or sell her out. But she saw the look in his eyes—the same steady, unblinking focus she had noticed back at the renegade camp. He wasn't doing this out of foolish bravery; he was doing it because it was the only way forward.
“Be careful,” she whispered, her hand resting briefly against his chest.
“Just be ready at the water tower,” Rowan replied.
He didn't wait for her to answer. He stood up from the brush, stepped out onto the open wagon road leading down into Dead Man’s Creek, and began walking down the hill with his hands empty and his shoulders square.
Elira watched him go until he disappeared behind the first line of dilapidated shacks. Then, she turned her face toward the back ridge, sliding her knife from its sheath as she began her descent toward the corral.
Down in the basin, Rowan stepped into the dusty main street just as the card players looked up. One of them spat into the dirt, squinting against the sun.
“Well, look what crawled out of the brush,” the man muttered, reaching for the pistol at his hip.
May you like
Rowan stopped dead in the center of the road, raised his hands just enough to keep them visible, and let out a calm, carrying voice that echoed off the wooden false fronts.
“I’m looking for the man running this camp,” Rowan called out. “Tell him I’ve got an offer he can’t refuse about the Duskwind claim.”
