Sundown Sinners

Chapter Twelve: Unlikely Allies

The world should never be this quiet.

No, not just quiet. Quiet had texture, had shape. Quiet could still feel occupied. This felt hollow, like sound had been scraped out of the air and taken with it whatever warmth had been left behind. It pressed against my ears until I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something, anything, to prove that I wasn't the last person left in the world.

Our camp should have sounded like something.

Cookie's quiet clinking of tin as she fussed with breakfast, already awake before the rest of us whether she wanted to be or not. Walter's morning cough, rough and wet, followed by his inevitable grumbling about the cold. The low murmur of men who slept poorly and woke up worse, voices gravelly and impatient as they stretched stiff limbs and reached for coffee before their eyes were even fully open.

Even when everyone was asleep, there were always the horses shifting in their tethers, leather creaking, the soft huff of breath through flared nostrils. The fire never went fully silent either, its embers popping, wood settling, and the quiet, living proof that someone had been here recently and intended to stay.

Instead, the campsite was dead.

Jacks slowed Garbanzo the moment we rode into the clearing, his posture changing so abruptly it sent a jolt of unease through me. My own horse followed without protest, though his ears swivelled forward, then pinned back, his head lifting as if he were trying to scent something the way animals always could before people caught on. I stared, confused for one stupid, hopeful second. After all, the gang's things were still here.

The bedrolls lay where they had been kicked aside at dawn. The sacks of supplies sat half-open, their mouths gaping open like they'd been abandoned mid-use. The makeshift rack where guns hung when people were trying to pretend they weren't paranoid still stood upright, hooks empty but intact. The doctor's tent remained pitched at the edge of camp, canvas rippling slightly in the breeze like it was breathing, in and out, patient and unaware that it had been left behind.

But no one moved.

No one spoke.

No one turned to look at us.

The absence was so complete it felt intentional, as if the camp itself were holding its breath.

Jacks slid from his saddle before the horses had fully stopped. He didn't say my name. He didn't make a joke or throw out some offhand comment to cut the tension. He just hit the ground and started walking, fast and deliberate, boots crunching over frost-hardened dirt, like he already knew what we were going to find and only needed confirmation. Clouds sunk low in the sky, obscuring the tops of the trees. The air smelt like a bonfire.

I dismounted more carefully, my thighs protesting as my boots sank into the churned earth. The soreness from the ride flared sharply, grounding me in my body whether I wanted it or not. One stay at the House of Fate couldn't cure all ails, I guessed.

The ground looked freshly trampled. Too many overlapping footprints. Too many scuffed heel marks. It looked like people had milled around in a tight, anxious circle before breaking apart and heading off in different directions, urgency stamped into every step.

The fire pit sat in the center of camp, black and wet. Smoke curled faintly from it, thin as a ghost, barely visible unless you knew to look for it. Someone had put it out recently, drenching it with whatever had remained in the dented enamel coffee pot. The coffee had been dumped carelessly over the coals, turning ash into sludge, where the pot was then thrown into the dirt below. It wasn't how Cookie did things. It wasn't how anyone did things when they had time.

Jacks crouched beside the fire pit and held his hand over it, palm down. He didn't touch it. He didn't need to.

"Still warm," he muttered.

The words tightened something in my chest. "How long?"

"Not long." His eyes lifted, scanning the perimeter of camp, the tree line, the uneven ground beyond. "An hour. Maybe two."

I turned slowly, trying to take inventory like Jacks was. A crate of supplies had been knocked onto its side, hardtack biscuits scattered but not stolen. A coil of rope hung from a post, swaying gently, moving just enough to make me wonder how recently someone had brushed past it. Someone's coat lay folded on a log as if they'd taken it off with every intention of putting it back on.

That was what scared me most. It didn't look like the camp had been raided. It looked like the camp had been abandoned. As a historian, it didn't take much effort to recall the images I had seen of abandoned towns in Japan after the bombings in World War II, or the houses untouched by the ash in Pompeii. I shuddered.

"Where are they?" I asked, my voice sounding too loud, too sharp in all that emptiness.

Jacks didn't answer right away. He straightened slowly, his posture stiff, eyes narrowed. Then he pointed with his chin toward the edge of the clearing where the ground turned softer and darker.

Tracks.

Horse tracks, fresh enough that the edges were still crisp. Several sets, close together, heading out as a group. Not spread wide like casual travel, not wandering. Tight. Purposeful. Like men riding hard, keeping each other in sight, afraid of being left behind.

Toward the open land.

Toward the place Silas had taken me to learn shooting.

Toward where we'd seen the railroad men.

Something cold settled in my gut.

Jacks climbed back into his saddle in one smooth motion, like he'd done it a thousand times and never once had to think about it.

"Come on," he called.

I didn't hesitate. My boots found the stirrups and my body remembered the basics the way the game liked to pretend it was teaching me: weight, balance, hands steady. Samuel shifted under me, snorting, muscles bunching beneath his coat, but he held steady.

Jacks flicked his reins. "Stay close."

We followed the tracks at a trot, the horses' hooves drumming over frozen earth. The farther we went, the more the air changed. It thickened, grew heavy and dirty, pressing against my lungs. A smell crept into my nose; not just smoke, but burnt grass and wet ash, something acrid that scratched at the back of my throat and made my eyes sting.

Then I saw it.

Fire, far off at first; an orange smear against the gray morning, flickering through the trees like the world itself was bleeding light. Jacks swore under his breath, low and vicious. We crested a low rise and the land opened up into the same peaceful stretch of field I remembered from the night Silas taught me to shoot. Except it wasn't peaceful anymore.

The fields were aflame.

Not one clean wall of fire, but scattered patches, deliberate and uneven, like someone had lit it carefully--here, and here, and here--letting the wind do the rest. Smoke rolled low over the ground, swallowing everything in a gray haze that made distances hard to judge and shapes shift at the edges of my vision.

And there were riders.

Men on horseback moved like shadows at the edge of the smoke, spread wide, calling out into the charred air.

"Hello?" one of them shouted. "Anyone out there?"

Another voice answered, strained. "Call again! Louder!"

My heart slammed once, hard enough that I felt it in my throat. "They're searching."

"Or pretending to," Jacks said, and there was nothing playful in his voice now. I glanced at his face, but his expression was hard and unreadable. He wasn't smiling anymore.

We pushed forward anyway, because the tracks led here, and because the kind of silence we'd found at camp didn't end on its own. We rode straight into the smoke.

It clung to everything--clothes, hair, lungs--coating my tongue with ash and leaving a metallic taste behind. Samuel snorted beneath me, tossing his head as embers drifted through the air like dying fireflies. I leaned forward instinctively, murmuring nonsense under my breath, the same way I'd heard Silas do when a horse got skittish. He didn't calm much, but he didn't bolt either. That felt like a win.

The ground here was ruined. What had once been flattened paths through tall grass were now blackened scars, the earth cracked and steaming where fire still chewed at it in hungry little tongues. Fence posts had collapsed into themselves, reduced to brittle husks that crumbled at a touch. A wagon rut cut through the destruction, deep and unmistakable.

"Their covered wagon," Jacks said, following my gaze.

"It's gone," I replied, my voice coming out hoarse.

"Yeah." His jaw tightened. "But they didn't leave empty-handed."

We slowed as figures emerged from the smoke ahead of us. Horses first, then men, familiar silhouettes cutting through the haze. Relief surged through me so suddenly it left me dizzy, my knees going weak in the saddle.

"Jacks! Elliot!" Caleb's voice carried through the crackle of fire.

He rode toward us at a canter, pulling his horse up short when he reached us. His coat was streaked with soot, his hands blackened, knuckles scraped raw like he'd been digging through debris with his bare hands. Silas followed close behind him, eyes bloodshot and wild, his usual sharpness honed into something dangerous. Walter Finch came last, his expression carved from stone, rifle slung across his back.

"You're alive," I breathed, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

"So are you," Caleb said shortly, his gaze flicking over me like he was counting limbs. "Good."

"We tried to warn them," he continued, before I could ask the millions of questions swarming inside of my mind. "By the time we reached the river, the wagon was already moving. They didn't even slow down."

"They're moving fast," Walter added. "Too fast for men who plan on staying legal."

"What do they want?" The words tore out of me, hot and raw. "Why do this? Why burn a peaceful settlement?"

Silas rounded on me so sharply his horse sidestepped. "Because the railroad wants what it always wants," he barked. "Money. Straight tracks. No delays." His gaze cut back to the burning fields. "And if a few Indians get in the way of that, they don't see it as murder. They see it as progress."

The words lodged in my gut like a stone. I knew that this was a game. I knew that none of this was real. And yet, events like this had actually happened. The people who died here may not be real, but that didn't mean they never existed. Their pain was now being felt across generations, and the modern world was still trying to squash them out.

Jacks shifted beside me, one hand resting near his gun, the other tight on the reins. "Any sign of survivors?"

Caleb nodded once. "That's what we're doing now. Spread out. Watch the ground. Call if you see anything that doesn't belong to fire."

We split without argument.

The search was quiet, grim work. We moved slowly through the smoke, eyes scanning the ground, ears straining for any sound that wasn't the hiss of embers or the soft crack of dying wood. I dismounted when the terrain grew too uneven, leading Samuel by the reins while my boots sank into warm ash that clung to the leather.

There were signs of life everywhere.

A child's doll lay face-down near a burned-out cooking pit, its porcelain cheek cracked, its painted eyes staring blindly into the dirt. I knelt and picked it up before I could stop myself, brushing ash from its dress with trembling fingers.

Nearby, glass beads glittered faintly in the soot, blue, red, and green, scattered like someone's necklace had snapped mid-run. Tools lay abandoned where they'd been dropped: a carving knife, a small hand axe, a basket half-full of roots burned into blackened curls.

But there were no bodies, no blood, and no signs of struggle beyond the fire itself.

"They left," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. "They got out."

Jacks crouched near a set of footprints, fingers hovering just above the ground. "Fast and organized." He looked up at me. "They knew this was coming."

Hope bloomed, fragile but real. A voice cut through the smoke.

"Caleb!" Cookie's call rang out, sharp and urgent. "Over here! The Chief would like to speak with you."

Caleb appeared at our sides in seconds. Once together, Cookie led us along the edge of the burned field, careful to skirt the places where the ground still smoked. The heat rose in uneven waves, warping the air just enough to make everything feel unreal, like I was looking at the world through dirty glass. Ash clung to the hem of her skirts and the cuffs of our coats, turning us all the same dull gray.

"There," she said quietly, lifting her chin.

He sat exactly where she'd said he would. On the low rise beyond the fields, a lone rider waited, silhouetted against the pale sky. He didn't pace or shift or look restless the way I might have expected. He sat straight-backed in the saddle, hands resting loosely on the horn, as if he had all the time in the world. His horse stood just as calmly beneath him, dark-coated and broad-chested, its ears forward and alert but not nervous. Watching us. Watching everything.

Caleb slowed his horse and raised a hand, signaling the rest of the group to stay back. Then, after a brief pause, he glanced over his shoulder at me.

"Elliot," he said.

My stomach tightened. "Me?"

"Yes." His tone brooked no argument. He nudged his horse forward. "Come with me."

I swallowed and followed, Samuel's hooves crunching softly as we left the others behind. The smoke thinned as we climbed, the air growing cooler and cleaner with every step. From up here, the destruction below looked smaller; contained, but no less deliberate. Burned fields. Trampled ground. The ugly geometry of progress carved straight through land that hadn't asked for it.

Up close, the man waiting for us was older than I'd first thought. His hair was pulled back neatly, streaked through with gray, and his face was lined in a way that spoke of years spent outdoors, watching weather roll in and reading the land like a language. His eyes were dark and steady, taking us in without any sign of surprise.

Caleb tipped his hat as we drew near. "We came as soon as we saw the fire."

The man inclined his head, a precise, measured gesture. "You tried to warn us," he said. His voice was calm, even, carrying easily on the wind. "For that, I thank you."

"I'm sorry we were too late," Caleb replied.

The man shook his head once. "You were not. My men saw your doctor and your wild-eyed man in the woods. They heard their words and intentions to tell us." He gestured with a subtle movement of his chin toward the scorched fields below. "When we saw the covered wagon for ourselves, we moved the village. Women. Children. Elders. What could be carried was carried. What could not be carried was left behind." His gaze lingered briefly on the destruction, something unreadable passing across his features. "They burned what they could not take."

Caleb let out a slow breath he'd clearly been holding. "Any injuries?"

"Minor," the man said. "Smoke. Scrapes. Fear." His eyes shifted then, just slightly settling on me.

I straightened instinctively, suddenly aware of how out of place I must have looked. Borrowed coat. Too-clean boots. Hands that hadn't earned their calluses yet.

"No one needs a doctor's hands today," he continued.

Relief hit me so hard it left me lightheaded. I hadn't realized how tightly wound I'd been, how afraid I was that I'd be expected to step forward and pretend I knew what I was doing. I nodded, unsure what else to do.

Caleb cleared his throat. "This is Elliot," he said. "Our doctor. And our educated man."

The Washoe man studied me in silence. Not the dismissive kind. The kind that weighed things carefully. Then, slowly, he inclined his head in a respectful bow. Instinct took over. Awkwardly, I bowed back, nearly tipping forward in the saddle.

"I am Tobasi. Many call me Toby. You honor us with your concern," he said. "Even when your skills are not needed."

"I'm glad," I managed. "That you're safe."

A faint smile touched his lips. "So are we."

"You are unlikely allies," he said then, turning his gaze back to Caleb. "But an enemy of an enemy is a friend." His expression sharpened, curiosity cutting through the calm. "Why do you hate the railroad so fiercely? One would assume that trains bring more convenience to you and your kind."

The question hung in the air between us.

Caleb didn't hesitate. "Because they killed my mother." The words landed like a gunshot. Even the wind seemed to still.

I turned sharply toward him, my heart slamming against my ribs. This was the first time he'd said it out loud. Not hinted. Not danced around it. Just the raw truth, stripped of decoration.

Toby's expression softened, something like understanding settling there. "Then our grief is shared," he said quietly.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, he straightened in the saddle. "We will camp two miles downriver," he continued. "There is strength in numbers. You would be welcome to travel with us."

Caleb nodded slowly. "I'll speak with my people."

Toby inclined his head once more. "Then we will wait."

We turned back toward the others together, the hill falling away beneath us. My thoughts churned, loud and tangled.

"Why did you ask me to come?" I asked quietly once we were far enough away that our voices wouldn't carry.

"A doctor is always a friend to men who have been hurt," Caleb replied. "And it's always better to show peace than intimidation."

I nodded, even if my hands were still shaking slightly on the reins.

We rode back down the hill together, the ground sloping gently beneath our horses' hooves. From above, the others had looked small, figures scattered among smoke and ash, but as we drew closer, their movements became clearer. Controlled. Purposeful. No panic. That alone told me a lot.

They trusted Caleb.

The fire had begun to lose its fight with the wind. Flames guttered low, coughing more smoke than heat now, the worst of it already spent. Silas and Jacks worked together near the edge of the field, dragging a fallen fence post away from a lingering pocket of embers. Walter stood nearby, stamping out sparks with the heel of his boot, rifle slung but ready. Cookie knelt beside a bucket, passing water where it was needed, her jaw set in that stubborn way that meant she'd already accepted the situation and moved on to fixing what she could.

All of them looked up when they saw us returning as thunder began to rumble overhead.

"Well?" Silas asked immediately, not bothering to hide the tension in his voice.

"They moved in time," Caleb said. "No deaths. No serious injuries."

Something loosened in the group all at once. It wasn't relief exactly; more like a collective unclenching, the understanding that while something terrible had happened, it hadn't ended in the worst possible way.

Cookie exhaled sharply. "Thank God."

"They knew the railroad was coming," Caleb continued. "They'll be camping two miles downriver tonight."

Silas's gaze flicked toward the darkening horizon. "And?"

"And they offered to travel together."

That got a reaction. Jacks straightened, wiping soot from his hands onto his trousers. Walter's brows drew together, deepening the lines in his face. Cookie stood slowly, eyes thoughtful rather than wary.

"Strength in numbers," Walter muttered. "Hard to argue with."

"They're not asking for protection," Caleb said. "They're offering alliance."

Silas scoffed, though it lacked bite. "Didn't think I'd see the day."

I glanced between them, watching the decision take shape without anyone formally stating it. No raised voices. No debate. Just quiet calculation and the shared understanding that staying alone made us easier targets.

The wind shifted, cooler now, carrying with it the smell of damp earth instead of smoke. Clouds rolled overhead, thick and low, bruised purple and gray.