"Hey," Clay whispered, pointing through the pines.
Colt eased his Winchester to his shoulder and tracked Clay's finger.
There he stood. Tall and proud, shoulders wide, rack so big it nearly blotted out the light filtering through the branches.
"Son of a bitch," Colt breathed. He drew a slow breath and steadied the bead.
"You better not miss, little brother," Clay mumbled around the wad of tobacco bulging his cheek. "Pa'll tan yer hide six ways to Sunday."
Colt started the squeeze, finger light on the trigger.
"Use that Apache ya got in ya," Clay said with a grin, and then he slammed a fist into Colt's shoulder right as the trigger broke.
BOOM.
The shot cracked harmless into the cold sky.
"What the hell, Clay?" Colt snapped. He let the rifle drop and shoved his brother hard.
Clay caught him easy. Five years older and built like a barn door, he held Colt off without breaking a sweat. Then he folded over laughing like a fool.
Colt stumbled back from the shove and felt his shirt pull open. The charm swung out on its rawhide cord before he could stop it.
He grabbed it quick and tucked it back inside, but not before he felt that familiar weight shift in his palm. The faded red silk pouch, soft from years against his skin. The strange black symbols stitched into it that looked like something out of an old Japanese book Pa kept on the shelf. And inside, that small hard shape he'd never opened. Never dared.
Pa had found him as a baby with the pouch already tied around his neck. Said to leave it be. Said it might mean something someday.
The weight of it against his chest steadied him now, same as it always did.
"Well... hell." Colt scooped the Winchester up, worked the action once out of pure frustration, and slung it over his shoulder.
Clay slung an arm around Colt's shoulders as they turned back toward the horses. The mules stood quiet with packs heavy from the day's kill.
"The way Hank's been chasin' does," Clay said, voice still rough with leftover laughter, "there's gonna be plenty of little Hanks runnin' these woods next year."
Colt gave a short huff. The sting of the miss eased a little under his brother's weight.
They'd taken only a few steps when the first streak cut across the sky.
Dark purple, violet at the heart, almost black along the edges. It moved low and fast, too low for a star.
Colt stopped dead. "What the hell is that?"
He grabbed Clay's arm.
Another streak followed, then more, arcing out of the west like burning arrows loosed from some distant bow. They looked like shooting stars but moved too deliberate, too close.
Clay's grin was gone. He stared up with his hand drifting to the revolver on his hip.
"Ain't never seen stars move like that," he muttered.
Far toward the broken mesas, a brighter flash bloomed. Brief, but bright enough to light the pines for a heartbeat.
The woods went quieter than before. No wind. No birds. Nothing.
Colt felt the cold crawl up his spine.
Clay clapped a hand on Colt's back. "Let's get home to Pa."
They swung into their saddles. Colt took the lead rope for one mule, Clay the other, and the horses started down the trail at a walk with the mules plodding behind.
Home wasn't far. Just a couple miles through the pines and down into the valley.
Colt kept glancing west toward where those violet streaks had vanished beyond the ridges. The memory sat heavy in his gut like bad water.
Clay pulled his horse up short. "Whoa."
He nodded ahead.
Three riders coming toward them on the same trail, moving at a trot.
Colt squinted. "That Earl?"
"Yeah," Clay said, his voice flat. "Jeff and Henry ridin' with him."
Colt's fingers tightened on the reins.
Earl was Clay's age, twenty-three, mean as a snake and twice as quick to strike. Jeff and Henry were a year or two older but dumber, happy to follow wherever Earl pointed his hate.
The three slowed as they closed the distance, then stopped and spread out just enough to block the trail.
Earl sat easy in the saddle with his thumbs hooked in his belt and a smirk already in place.
"Well, well, well," he drawled. "Look what the mules dragged in."
Jeff snickered. Henry spat to the side and grinned like he'd heard the joke before and still thought it was clever.
Colt felt his jaw tighten. Clay didn't say a word, just rested a hand on his thigh close to his revolver.
The pines around them stayed quiet. Whatever those lights in the sky had been, they felt a long way off right now. This was trouble they knew.
Earl swung down from his horse and his boots thudded into the dirt. He started walking toward them with his hands hanging loose at his sides.
Colt straightened in the saddle. "What the hell you want this time, Earl?"
"Hang on," Clay snapped at him.
He faced Earl direct. "We don't want no trouble, Earl."
Earl stopped close, right in front of Colt's horse. He looked Colt over with cold eyes, then shifted his gaze to the mules and the deer packed heavy on their backs.
He spat thick, and it landed square in the dust by Colt's boot.
Still locked on Colt, he spoke to Clay. "Half-breed luck. Still don't make you special."
He flashed a thin grin and glanced back at Jeff and Henry. They laughed, like idiots.
Colt's jaw locked and heat flooded up his neck. His hand dropped to the Winchester before he could think about it, fingers tightening on the stock. He'd heard it before, that word, heard it his whole damn life, but it never stopped burning.
Earl drew fast. Revolver out, hammer clicked back, barrel leveled on Colt's chest.
Clay matched him. His gun cleared leather and pointed dead at Earl's face.
Jeff and Henry jerked their rifles up with sights on Clay.
5 barrels stared across the trail. Hammers cocked and ready. The horses shifted uneasy, hooves scraping dirt, and the mules stamped once behind them.
The pines stayed dead quiet.
Clay kept his voice low. "Take 'em."
Colt stared at him. "What."
"Y'all can have the deer," Clay said louder, eyes fixed on Earl. "But not the mules."
Colt's gut twisted. His own brother, backing down to these sons of bitches. Giving up what they'd spent all day killing and dressing out. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell Clay to go to hell, but the barrels stayed up and Clay's jaw was set like stone.
Earl smiled slow. He spun his revolver once and holstered it smooth, then motioned to Jeff and Henry. They followed his lead and lowered their rifles.
Colt's grip tightened on the Winchester.
"No." He raised it fast and aimed dead at Earl. "Fuck that."
"Colt," Clay said, his voice cutting.
Another violet streak slashed the sky. Then another, and another, faster now and closer than before.
Earl looked up, his smirk gone. He stepped back slow.
Henry's voice shook. "Let's get the hell out of here, Earl."
Colt felt heat rise in his chest. He grabbed the charm under his shirt and it was warm against his palm, almost burning.
BOOM.
One streak hit ground nearby and smoke blasted up with debris flying everywhere. The smell of burning brush filled the air.
Clay swore loud. "Oh shit."
Jeff's horse freaked and reared high, throwing him hard into the dirt.
Henry didn't say a word. He just spurred his horse and took off down the trail.
Another hit, even nearer than the first. The ground shook under them.
Colt looked at Clay, but the noise swallowed everything. Clay's mouth moved with words Colt couldn't hear.
The sky turned dim purple with streaks everywhere, too many to count.
Earl bolted. He ran straight to the ditch beside the trail and jumped in.
Clay slid off his horse quick, grabbed Colt's arm, and pulled him down hard. He dragged him into the ditch right next to Earl.
Earl yelled over the roar. "Come on! Get in!"
Jeff scrambled up and ran stumbling toward them, then dove into the ditch.
They all crouched low, packed tight together.
It was chaos.