Face to Face

The riders catch you at a dry wash, rifles drawn. Their leader spits tobacco and tosses a folded paper at your boots — a Consolidated Mining bond, sealed in wax. "Camp's a write-off, doc. Let the fever burn itself out. Company can't have word getting out before the shareholders' meeting."

You understand then. Not raiders. Not Apache. Hired men with ledgers behind their guns. The serum at your hip suddenly weighs more than gold. Behind you lies the territory, ignorant and vulnerable. Ahead, Coffin Creek dies by the hour. You ease your hand toward the saddle holster, calculating the distance, the wind, the cost.