Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at the Gorge
The silence that followed Cole’s words was heavy enough to choke on. The three hired hardcases flanking Marshal Roy Vance shifted uneasily in their saddles, their hands hovering near their gun butts as they glanced sideways at their leader. Out on the frontier, men didn't care much about politics, but they cared a great deal about being left holding the bag when a corrupt scheme went public.
Roy’s eyes darted from Cole’s steady, unblinking gaze to Tomas holding the Winchester near the rock pillar. The enforcer’s chest rose and fell in ragged, angry breaths, his fingers twitching against the walnut grip of his sidearm.
"He's bluffing," Roy snarled, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the shale. "There ain't no papers left. The whole office burned to the ground. Kill them both and let's search the bodies."
"Try it, Roy," Cole said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of the enforcer's neck stand up.
Before Roy could clear leather, a deep, resonant rumble echoed from the cliffs high above the gorge. Everyone froze, looking up toward the ridge line.
Against the pale afternoon sky, a line of dark figures materialized along the edge of the precipice. Tall Hawk stood in the center, his arms raised, while beside him, two Apache warriors braced their shoulders against a massive boulder resting precariously on the lip of the drop. With one coordinated heave, the boulder tipped forward, crashing down the steep slope fifty yards ahead of the riders, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces and blocking the trail completely.
At the same time, the sharp, distinct clack-clack of a dozen rifles being cocked echoed from the surrounding rocks above.
Roy Vance’s horse reared in terror, snorting wildly and nearly unseating the marshal. The three hardcases instantly pulled their reins back, their eyes wide with sudden, unadulterated panic as they realized they were trapped in a classic crossfire between an experienced cavalry officer and an unseen band of warriors.
"We ain't paid enough to get turned into target practice for redskins," one of the hardcases muttered, dropping his hand away from his pistol.
"Shut up!" Roy roared, his face purple with rage. "Marshal's orders! Take the shot!"
"Your warrant is expired, Roy," Cole said, his hand flashing down and drawing his Colt with practiced, terrifying speed. Before the enforcer could complete his draw, Cole’s bullet cracked through the air, clipping the brim of Roy’s hat and knocking it clean off his head into the dirt.
Roy slammed his hands up, pulling his horse to a halt as the echoes of the shot died away among the canyon walls.
"The game's over, Roy," Cole said, stepping closer while keeping the pistol leveled at the marshal's chest. "You can ride back down to Silver City and tell Marcus that his ledger is gone, but the names aren't. Or you can stay here and explain to the crows why you died protecting a cattle thief."
Roy glared at Cole with pure, unmitigated hatred, his chest heaving. For a long second, it looked as though he might throw his life away on sheer stubborn pride. Then, slowly, with trembling fingers, he lifted his hands away from his weapons and pulled his horse around.
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"This ain't over, Cole," Roy spat, his voice shaking with malice. "Marcus owns the territory. You can't hide in these hills forever."
"I'm not hiding," Cole said as the enforcer and his men spurred their horses down the narrow, blocked trail, retreating in total defeat. "I'm coming down."
