Caleb Morrison had spent ten years learning the shape of his own silence—how it fit between fence posts, how it settled on the porch at
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Thorne Maddox had come to the high canyon to die quiet—no bugle, no flag, no wife left to cry. The war had taken his knee
Wyoming, 1881. Snow pressed the land flat and silent, the kind of quiet that makes a man hear his own heart arguing with itself. Mason
John Merritt had spent eight winters learning the shape of his own silence—how it fit between ax strokes, how it settled on the cot at
Black Mesa, 1879. The wind carried iron filings that morning, scraping skin and fence rails alike. I swung the hammer because nails don’t ask questions
Colt McAllister had buried more promises than calves born on his spread, and he liked it that way—quiet land, quiet mornings, no one to answer
The autumn wind in the border town smelled of whiskey and cheap tobacco. Men crowded the auction block built for cattle, shouting numbers at a
Clint Mercer drove the last cedar post into the hard skin of Broken Mesa, each blow of the hammer ringing like a clock ticking off
Grant Hail had spent so many years moving that the ground beneath his horse felt like it might keep rolling if he ever stopped. He
The Arizona sun had no mercy, but the man on the narrow horse had seen worse. He rode without a plan except to find water