Two guns. One bounty. And a man who had been hunting the wrong enemy for fifteen years.
CHAPTER 1
The sun was sinking behind Black Creek when Clay Taylor saw the first body.
It lay beside the trail, half-covered by dust.
Clay pulled his horse to a stop.
The dead man wore a deputy’s badge.
His throat had been cut.
Clay slowly reached for his revolver.
Someone had killed him recently.
Very recently.
A second horse appeared on the ridge.
Clay looked up.
A gray-haired man sat in the saddle.
Military coat.
Silver buttons.
A revolver hanging from his right hip.
The man’s eyes were cold.
“Clay Taylor.”
Clay narrowed his eyes.
“That’s what they call me.”
The stranger dismounted.
“Colonel Scott Wood.”
Clay glanced at the uniform.
“Colonel?”
“Retired.”
“Then why are you wearing the coat?”
Scott looked at the dead deputy.
“To remind myself why I stopped wearing the badge.”
Clay studied him.
He had heard the name.
Scott Wood.
Former cavalry officer.
Known for surviving the Battle of Red Creek.
Known for losing thirty-seven men under his command.
Known for never speaking about it.
“What brings a retired colonel this far west?”
Scott looked toward the trail.
“Thomas Adam.”
Clay’s hand tightened around the reins.
“You’re hunting him too?”
Scott nodded.
“Have been for fifteen years.”
Clay almost laughed.
“I’ve been hunting him for three weeks.”
“Then you’re new.”
“To him.”
Scott looked at Clay’s rifle.
“You won’t catch him.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone who has tried is dead.”
Clay looked at the deputy again.
“Apparently not everyone.”
Scott stepped closer.
“Thomas has six men with him.”
“I heard eight.”
“Two are already dead.”
Clay frowned.
“How do you know?”
Scott pointed toward the trees.
“Because I killed them.”
Clay slowly turned.
Two bodies lay beneath the branches.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Clay smiled.
“Looks like we’re after the same wolf.”
Scott’s expression didn’t change.
“Maybe.”
Clay raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe?”
Scott looked directly into his eyes.
“Sometimes two men hunting the same wolf end up shooting each other.”
A distant gunshot echoed across the valley.
Both men turned.
Scott reached for his revolver.
Clay did the same.
A horse raced across the ridge.
Its rider was wounded.
He fell from the saddle.
Before either man could reach him, the rider whispered one sentence.
“Thomas says… tell Scott… he remembers the house.”
Then he died.
Scott froze.
Clay noticed.
For the first time, the old soldier’s expression broke.
Fear.
Not anger.
Not hatred.
Fear.
Clay looked at him.
“What house?”
Scott stared at the dead man.
“The one where my family died.”
The wind moved across Black Creek.
And somewhere beyond the ridge, Thomas Adam was laughing.
