The Ravine at Mile Eighty

The snow exploded. A spray of white powder and shattered rock erupted inches from Caleb’s face, stinging his skin like a swarm of frozen hornets. He didn't think; he just threw himself sideways, his shoulder slamming into the hard-packed drift behind the boulder. The crack of the rifle shot rolled down the valley a second later, a flat, ugly sound that was swallowed almost instantly by the wind.

"Down! Stay down!" Emory’s voice was a ragged shout, barely audible over the gale.

"I am down!" Caleb yelled back, spitting snow. He scrambled on his hands and knees, dragging his Winchester through the slush. The denim of his knees was already soaked through, a biting, wet cold that seized his joints. "Where are they? I can't see a damn thing through this soup."

Emory was huddled to his left, pressed tight against the granite face of the cliff. He looked wrecked. His charcoal wool coat was heavy with moisture, the collar turned up against the biting wind. He had his revolver drawn, the long barrel resting on his forearm, but he wasn't firing. He was waiting. Conserving. That was Emory—always counting the bullets while Caleb was busy wasting them.

"Ridge line. Three of them," Emory said, his voice tight. He wiped melted snow from his eyelashes with a shaking hand. "They have the high ground, Caleb. We're sitting ducks in a barrel."

"Fish," Caleb corrected, though his teeth were starting to chatter. "Fish in a barrel. Ducks sit on a pond."

"I don't care about the taxonomy!" Emory snapped, twisting to look at him. His eyes were pale, washed out by the grey light of the storm, but frantic. "If they flank us on the north side, we’re dead. We need to move."

Another shot rang out, chipping the top of their cover. A shard of granite pinged off the metal of Caleb's rifle receiver. The shooters were getting the range dialled in. The wind howled down the ravine, a physical weight pressing against them, smelling of wet pine and impending violence. It wasn't just a snowfall anymore; it was a whiteout, the world narrowing down to the three feet of space between them and the death waiting above.

Caleb checked the loading gate of his rifle. Two rounds. Maybe three. He’d lost count in the scramble from the horses. "Move where? The horses are spooked and halfway to the treeline by now. We try to run across that clearing, they’ll cut us down."

"Not the clearing." Emory holstered his gun with a fluid, practiced movement and pointed toward a dark fissure in the rock face about forty yards up the slope. It was barely a shadow in the swirling white. "There. The old mining drift. If we get inside, they can't hit us from the ridge. We can bottle them up if they try to come in after us."

Caleb squinted. Forty yards. Uphill. In knee-deep snow. With three riflemen taking potshots at them. "You're crazy. You're actually deranged. I always knew it."

"You have a better idea?" Emory grabbed Caleb’s jacket, his grip surprisingly strong. "Stay here and freeze? Or let them pin us until they can walk right up and put a bullet in our heads?"

Caleb looked at him. Really looked at him. For weeks they’d been circling each other, trading insults and threats, uneasy partners forced together by a bounty neither could collect alone. Emory’s face was pale, his lips tinged blue, but his jaw was set. He wasn't asking for permission; he was offering a lifeline.

"Fine," Caleb spat, jerking his jacket free. "Fine. But I go first. You cover me."

"I have six shots," Emory said. "I’ll keep their heads down. Go on my signal."

Emory spun out from behind the rock, raising the revolver. He fired three shots in rapid succession—*crack, crack, crack*—towards the ridge. It was suppressing fire, wild and loud.

"Go!"

Caleb launched himself. He didn't run so much as thrash forward, his boots slipping on the scree hidden beneath the snow. His breath tore at his throat, ragged and hot. The cold air burned his lungs. He heard a shout from above, then the answering fire.

Snow kicked up around his feet. A bullet whined past his ear, close enough to feel the pressure wave. He scrambled over a fallen log, his hand scraping against rough bark, splinters driving into his palm. He didn't stop to check. He just kept pumping his legs, the muscles burning with lactic acid.

He reached the fissure—a jagged tear in the cliff side—and threw himself behind the lip of rock. He spun around, raising his rifle. "Emory! Move!"

Emory was already moving, a dark shape against the white blur. He was faster than Caleb, lighter on his feet, but the snow was treacherous. He stumbled, one hand going down to catch himself. A shot cracked, louder than the others.

Emory jerked. It wasn't a dramatic flail like in the dime novels. It was a small, sharp spasm, like he’d been shoved by an invisible hand. He stumbled again but kept running, throwing himself into the fissure beside Caleb, sliding on the loose shale floor.

They lay there for a second, gasping, the sound of their own breathing filling the small stone chamber. The wind outside was a dull roar now, muffled by the rock.

"You hit?" Caleb asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He crawled over, grabbing Emory’s shoulder. "Emory?"

Emory pushed himself up to a sitting position, his back against the damp wall of the cave. He hissed through his teeth. " grazed. I think. Left arm."

Caleb looked. The heavy wool of Emory’s coat was torn near the bicep. The fabric was dark, wet looking, but not gushing. Blood, bright and startlingly red against the grey wool, began to seep out.

"Let me see," Caleb demanded. His hands were shaking, adrenaline dumping out of his system and leaving him jittery.

"It’s fine," Emory grunted, trying to pull away. "Just a scratch. Watch the entrance."

"Shut up," Caleb said, not unkindly. He shoved his rifle into Emory’s good hand. "You watch the entrance. I'm checking the arm. We can't have you bleeding out while we wait for those bastards to freeze."

Blood and Wool

The interior of the drift was shallow, maybe ten feet deep before it collapsed into a pile of rubble. It smelled of wet earth and old copper. Outside, the world was a howling void, but in here, it was strangely quiet, intimate. The temperature seemed to drop as the adrenaline faded, the cold seeping into Caleb’s bones, making his fingers stiff and clumsy.

He peeled back the layers of Emory’s clothing. The coat, then the vest, then the linen shirt underneath. The fabric stuck to the wound, and Emory flinched, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth when Caleb tugged it free.

"Sorry," Caleb muttered. He wasn't used to apologizing. He wasn't used to touching Emory without trying to shove him or punch him.

"Just... do it," Emory whispered, his head tipped back against the rock, eyes closed. His face was stark white in the gloom, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the freezing temperature.

The bullet had carved a furrow across the outside of the bicep. It was ugly and raw, but shallow. Muscle was intact. It bled freely, though.

"Through and through. Well, barely through. More like a kiss," Caleb said, trying to sound dismissive, but his voice lacked its usual bite. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bandana. It was grimy, covered in dust from the trail, but it was all they had.

"That looks sanitary," Emory murmured, opening one eye. A ghost of a smirk played on his lips.

"It’s got character. Hold still."

Caleb wrapped the cloth around the arm, pulling it tight to stem the flow. Emory’s breath hitched, his good hand gripping Caleb’s knee, fingers digging into the denim. It was an anchor. A reflex.

Caleb froze for a second. The contact was electric, grounding. He looked at Emory’s hand, the long fingers, the dirt under the nails, the way the knuckles went white with the effort of not crying out. He looked up at Emory’s face. Emory was watching him, gaze unguarded for the first time in weeks. There was pain there, yes, but something else. A question. Or maybe a resignation.

"Tight enough?" Caleb asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

"Yeah. Yeah, it’s good." Emory didn't let go of his knee. "Thanks."

Caleb sat back on his heels, wiping his bloody hands on his thighs. "Don't thank me yet. We’re stuck in a hole with three gunmen outside and a storm that’s likely to bury us by morning."

"We're not dead yet," Emory said softly. He shifted, adjusting his position, and finally released Caleb’s knee. The absence of the pressure felt like a loss, which annoyed Caleb. "Who are they, Caleb? They aren't just bounty hunters. Hunters don't ambush like that. They want a payout, not a corpse."

Caleb pulled his shearling collar up, trying to trap some heat. He looked out at the swirling snow. "I might have... lifted something. From the wrong people. Back in Black Creek."

Emory let out a laugh, a dry, incredulous sound. "You stole? While we were laying low? What did you take? Gold? Cash?"

"A ledger," Caleb admitted, refusing to meet Emory’s eyes. "Small black book. Thought it might have safe combinations or something. Turned out to be names. Routes. Payoffs."

Emory stared at him. "You stole a syndicate ledger. And you didn't think to mention this when we were riding out?"

"I didn't think they'd miss it so fast!" Caleb snapped, defensive now. "And I didn't think you'd agree to ride with me if you knew I had the whole sprawling network of the Iron Rail Gang on my tail."

Emory was silent for a long moment. The wind whistled past the cave mouth, a lonely, mournful sound. Caleb braced himself for the anger. For Emory to tell him he was an idiot, a liability, that he was leaving him here to rot.

"I would have," Emory said finally. Quietly.

Caleb turned. "What?"

"I would have ridden with you anyway," Emory said. He was checking the cylinder of his revolver, spinning it slowly, the click-click-click loud in the small space. "Better the devil I know, right? And... I’m tired of riding alone, Caleb. Even if the company is substandard."

Caleb felt a heat rise in his neck that had nothing to do with the exertion. He scoffed, looking away to hide the sudden, stupid smile that wanted to break out. "Substandard. You’re one to talk, city boy."

"I haven't been a city boy in five years," Emory corrected, snapping the cylinder shut. "And we have a problem. They’ll be coming up. They know we’re hurt. They know we’re cornered."

"They think we’re cornered," Caleb said, the tactical part of his brain finally engaging, pushing aside the confusing emotional muck. "They think we’re scared rabbits."

"Aren't we?"

"No," Caleb said, reaching for his rifle. He checked the action again. It was smooth, despite the cold. "We’re badgers. Nasty, cornered badgers."

Emory looked at him, and the ghost of the smirk returned, stronger this time. "I hate that analogy."

"You love it. Here’s the plan. They can't see us. Visibility is zero. But they’ll follow our tracks before the snow covers them. One will come straight up the gut. The other two will try to circle high on the ridge to shoot down into the cave mouth."

"So we bait the middle?" Emory asked, catching on.

"I bait the middle," Caleb corrected. "I’ll fire a couple of shots, make a fuss. Make them look at me. You... you can climb, right? Even with that arm?"

Emory looked at the back wall of the fissure. It was rough, broken rock. It led up to a narrow chimney that likely opened out onto the ridge above. It would be hell on his shoulder.

"I can climb," Emory said. His voice was hard again. The tracker back in control.

"Get up top. Flank them while they’re looking at me. Just... don't miss."

Emory stood up, swaying slightly before steadying himself. He holstered his gun and moved to the back of the cave. He paused, looking back at Caleb. For a second, the air was heavy with things unsaid. *Be careful. Don't die. I need you.*

"Don't do anything stupid, Caleb," was all he said.

"Stupid is my middle name," Caleb replied, settling his rifle on a rock ledge near the entrance.

The Turn

The waiting was the worst part. Caleb listened to the scrape of Emory’s boots disappearing up the chimney, followed by the soft thud of falling pebbles. Then, silence. Just the wind.

He counted the seconds. One minute. Two. His fingers were numb inside his gloves. He blew on them, trying to keep the dexterity. If he couldn't feel the trigger, he was dead.

A shape materialized in the whiteout. A dark smudge, moving low and slow. The point man.

Caleb held his breath. He aimed slightly to the left of the shape, anticipating the movement. He didn't want to kill him yet. He wanted to make him yell. He wanted the others to look.

*Bang.*

The rifle kicked into his shoulder. The dark shape yelped and dropped flat. Caleb worked the lever—*clack-clack*—and fired again, kicking up snow just in front of the man.

"Over here, you ugly sons of bitches!" Caleb screamed, his voice raw. "Come and get it!"

Bullets hammered the rock around the cave mouth instantly. They were suppressing him. Chips of stone rained down on his hat. He huddled low, pressing his face into the dirt. *Come on, Emory. Come on.*

He heard shouting from the ridge. They were calling out positions. They were focused on the cave mouth, pouring fire into the darkness.

Then, from above and behind them, a different sound. The distinct, heavy boom of Emory’s large-bore revolver.

*Boom. Boom.*

The firing at the cave mouth stopped abruptly.

Caleb didn't wait. He surged up, vaulting over the rock ledge, ignoring the screaming protest of his frozen muscles. He burst out into the snow, rifle raised.

The point man in front of him was scrambling to turn around, looking up at the ridge where his friends had just died. He never made it.

Caleb fired. The man dropped.

Silence crashed back into the valley, heavier than before. The wind seemed to hold its breath.

"Emory!" Caleb yelled, scanning the ridge line. "Emory!"

A figure appeared on the lip of the rock above the cave. Emory. He was holding his left arm tight against his body, but he was standing. He raised his right hand in a wave.

Caleb slumped against the rock, his knees suddenly turning to water. He laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound that was lost in the storm. They were alive. They had actually done it.

He climbed up the slope to where the bodies of the flankers lay. Emory was already there, kneeling beside one of them, going through pockets with his good hand.

"You okay?" Caleb asked, breath pluming in the air.

"Sore," Emory said tightly. "Cold. But alive."

Caleb looked down at the dead man. He was wearing a long duster, high-quality leather. Not standard road agent gear. Emory pulled back the man’s coat to check for a wallet.

"Caleb," Emory said, his voice dropping an octave. "Look at this."

Caleb leaned in. Pinned to the inside of the vest was a badge. But it wasn't a lawman's star. It was a heavy silver circle, etched with a stylized locomotive wheel and a skull.

"Iron Rail Enforcers," Caleb whispered. The cold that washed over him now had nothing to do with the winter. "They sent the Enforcers. For a damn ledger?"

"It’s not just a ledger, is it?" Emory stood up, his face grim. He looked at Caleb, and the camaraderie of the cave was replaced by a new, shared dread. "You didn't just steal their routes, Caleb. You stole something that gets people killed."

Caleb looked at the silver badge, then out at the endless, swirling white of the pass. The storm wasn't letting up. If anything, it was getting worse. And now they knew that the three men lying in the snow were just the beginning.

"We need to move," Caleb said, his voice flat. "They'll have scouts. If we don't make the timberline by nightfall, we’re finished."

Emory nodded. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before gripping Caleb’s shoulder—the uninjured one. A squeeze. A pact.

"Let's go," Emory said. "Lead the way, partner."

They turned their backs on the dead men and trudged into the white, two dark specks vanishing into the throat of the storm. But as Caleb walked, he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on his back. The brand on the dead man's horse, tethered further down the slope, caught his eye as they passed. It wasn't local. It belonged to a syndicate that didn't leave loose ends, and certainly didn't stop at the county line.