Mallory's Bargain
Jed Mallory leans against the livery post, picking his teeth with a sliver of bone. "Fifty dollars," he says, "and you ride where I ride, no questions." He spits into the dust. "I know a trail the Apache use. Some bands have kin in that camp — they'll let a doctor through."
His grey eyes find yours. "But cross me, lady, and I'll leave you for the buzzards." Behind him, your horse stamps, restless. The sun climbs higher. Every minute, somewhere east, a miner stops breathing.