The Dead Man Rides Again (Preview)

Chapter One

The plains of Colorado stretched, wide and merciless, under a hammering sun. It was like looking upon death itself. Even the dirt was split hard like a dead man’s skin between the stale shrubbery. But Luke Dalton was used to looking at death. He’d ridden this trail more times than he could count, and each time, it remained the same—unforgiving, just like God.

Luke carried on. Behind him, within the covered wagons, he could hear muttering, unhappy refrains. Luke wasn’t one to dwell on doubts.

It was a simple choice: keep going or die.

Heat shimmered in waves off the golden grasslands. This was a passage marked by the travel of a thousand horses, and a thousand men that now lay at rest beneath the dirt. Luke felt the familiar grit of sweat and dust caking his skin. The feet of his mount, a silver mustang named Pistol, were blood red from the dirt he trod through. Pistol snorted, nostrils flaring with exhaustion, and Luke muttered a low, calming word that he wasn’t even sure was English. His mouth was too dry.

They’d been riding for hours. Not forward, not toward Salt Lake City as planned, but in circles. His train of five wagons creaked and groaned like aging beasts, weaving slow, uneven paths through the haze of kicked-up dust. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it kept them moving, and moving meant they weren’t sitting ducks.

“Keep your eyes sharp!” Luke barked over his shoulder.

Behind him, Mr. Dobbs rode carefully over the bumpy trail. The older man sat upright in the saddle, his gaze calm but searching, his rifle resting across his lap. Dobbs had a knack for spotting trouble before it arrived, and Luke trusted him like a brother—or as much as he trusted anyone.

The air tasted of dust and heat. Sweat beaded on Luke’s brow, dripping into his already stinging eyes. He squinted through the veil of swirling grit, scanning the horizon.

“Dalton,” Dobbs called, spitting up dust.

Luke twisted in his saddle, catching the older man’s motion to the north.

“We can’t keep turning around in circles like this.”

Luke shook his head. “We stay in one place, we die.”

“You feel it too, huh?” Dobbs said, his dark, craggy skin shimmering with sweat.

“We got eyes on us, that’s for sure. I feel it… I just don’t know where.”

“We stay put like this and we’ll find out right quick,” Dobbs said.

Luke thought he heard something. He turned.

A faint smudge broke the horizon—a gathering of figures, barely visible through the dust.

“Company,” Dobbs said.

Luke’s stomach rolled. It was time. He pulled a battered spyglass from his saddlebag, raising it to his eye. The smudge resolved into shapes: riders. A dozen at least, maybe more, their movements swift and purposeful. They were circling just beyond rifle range, their painted ponies blending with the land.

“Savages,” Luke muttered.

He closed the spyglass and returned it to the saddlebag, his mind already working through the possibilities. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced trouble on the Overland Trail. Though the governor had taken a harsh stance on the tribes, it had only worked to make them stronger. These were warriors.

Luke glanced over at the party. Mostly families. Mostly those who had never seen a man take another’s life. He inhaled through his teeth.

This was it. The job. He had known the risks when he took it, knew that guiding pioneers across this brutal stretch of country meant contending with the people who had lived here long before him. People whose space in the world was running out.

“Looks like they mean to test us,” Dobbs said.

Luke nodded, his hand instinctively brushing the grip of the revolver at his side. “Reckon so.”

He urged his horse closer to the lead wagon, where a nervous-looking man gripped the reins with white-knuckled hands. The man’s wide eyes darted toward Luke, silently begging for reassurance.

“Keep your people calm,” Luke said. “Keep them wagons moving. We stop, we’re done.”

The man swallowed hard and nodded, his gaze flicking toward the horizon where the riders had disappeared behind the dust cloud.

Luke turned back to Dobbs. “How many, you think?”

“More than us,” Dobbs said simply.

Luke sighed. He’d hoped for a different answer, but the truth had a way of finding its way out of Dobbs’ mouth, unvarnished and brutal.

“Spread the word,” Luke said. “Rifles ready, but don’t fire unless I give the order. If they mean to charge, we’ll make it costly for ‘em.”

Dobbs grunted in acknowledgment, spurring his horse toward the wagons to relay the instructions. Luke watched him go, his thoughts churning.

The plains around him grew quiet. Too quiet. Even the wind seemed to have stilled, leaving only the creak of wagon wheels and the dull thud of hooves. Luke’s hand tightened around his reins, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring.

He scanned the horizon again, searching. The riders would strike soon, while they still had the cover of the dust clouds.

Luke adjusted his Union jacket, the frayed fabric rough against his skin. The scars beneath it ached in the heat. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, but some habits died hard, and he couldn’t give up the coat.

Behind him, the wagons formed a loose circle, the pioneers whispering prayers and clutching weapons that still gleamed, unused. Luke didn’t judge them for their fear. The Overland Trail wasn’t for the faint of heart, and this was far from the first time he’d found himself staring down the barrel of death.

Dobbs returned, his expression as unreadable as ever. “They’ll come soon.”

Luke nodded. He reached for his rifle, feeling the weapon in his hands. He was good at his job—damn good—but out here, there were no guarantees.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The riders were out there, watching, waiting. The cloud of dust swallowed the land before them, and he could hear, just slightly, the faint rumble of hooves like thunder.

Aiming his weapon into the dust cloud, Luke let off a single shot, then prepared for the fight to come.

“Fire!” he roared.

Chapter Two

The next shot cracked through the air like lightning splitting the sky. Luke barely registered the sound before another rifle barked from the rear of the train. Then another. The smoke and dust that had cloaked the plains moments ago seemed to thicken, swirling with the chaos of gunfire and galloping hooves.

Luke spat out the grit that clung to his tongue, holstering his pistol and grappling for the Winchester pressed tight to his shoulder. Pistol lurched beneath him, his hooves catching on a rock or a rut, but he stayed steady. Luke eyes scanned the swirling haze, searching for movement.

A dark shape materialized out of the dust—a rider, hunched low over his horse, an arrow nocked and drawn. Luke squeezed the trigger and the rifle’s sharp report clacked. The rider fell, his body rolling into the churned earth as his horse vanished back into the fray.

“Keep firing!” Luke roared.

A handful of the pioneers obeyed, shooting in a panic. Most were just farmers or preachers. One man fired a shotgun into the cloud of dust and coughed from the kick, nearly losing his grip on the weapon.

Another arrow hissed past Luke’s ear, so close it stirred the hair on the back of his neck. He swiveled, raising the Winchester again. Through the dust, he caught a glimpse of painted faces, streaked with red and white, eyes burning. Another rider appeared, this one charging straight for the wagons, his war cry rising above the cacophony.

Luke’s shot was instinctive. The warrior slumped in his saddle and fell sideways, his pony galloping off without its master.

Luke didn’t have time to feel anything about it.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a young man—a boy, really—fumbling with a pistol. His face was pale, praying silently. Before Luke could shout a warning, an arrow struck the boy’s shoulder, spinning him around like a rag doll. He screamed, clutching at the shaft as he collapsed against the side of the wagon.

“Get him down!” Luke shouted at the nearest pioneer.

The dust swirled again, and Luke caught sight of another rider, this one angling directly for him. The brave was young, his face painted with streaks of white and ochre, his long hair whipping behind him. He carried no gun, only a wooden war club capped with feathers and stones.

The horse veered closer, its rider leaning low, his arm raised for a strike.

Luke’s Winchester was empty—he’d been counting his shots without thinking, and now he was out of time.

The brave’s pony surged alongside the wagon, its hooves striking sparks from the rocky ground. Luke shifted his grip on the rifle, holding it by the barrel like a club. The brave swung first, the war club whistling past Luke’s head. Luke countered, ramming the butt of the Winchester into the man’s chest.

“Don’t think about it!” he said.

The brave gasped, his grip faltering, and Luke struck again, this time catching him across the temple. The man tumbled from his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

The pony kept running, its momentum carrying it alongside the wagon. Without thinking, Luke reached for the reins.

The animal shied, jerking its head away from his hand. Luke cursed, leaning farther than he should have, nearly losing his balance. His fingers brushed the reins once, twice, then grabbed hold.

Luke’s foot slipped from the saddle. He fell hard, his stomach slamming. For a terrifying moment, he hung there, half-dragged, half-suspended, as the pony bucked beneath him.

With a desperate growl, Luke swung his leg up, catching the fallen rider’s saddle. He hauled himself upright, the reins clutched tight in one hand, the Winchester still in the other. His heart thundered in his chest, but he didn’t let himself stop to breathe.

From his new perch, the battlefield spread out before him—a shifting, violent panorama of dust, blood, and chaos. He saw Dobbs firing calmly from his saddle, each shot finding its mark. He saw pioneers scrambling behind the wagons, faces pale with terror.

A scream rang through the dust—more riders emerging from the haze, their ponies kicking up clods of dirt as they charged. They joined with the first group, who retreated enough to form one circle, which turned tail and headed for the dust.

He heard a pioneer cheer. Luke didn’t share the sentiment. They would circle back, and soon. He’d never seen a brave retreat, only come back harder.

Luke gritted his teeth and spurred the horse forward, away from the wagons. The dust cloud was a whirl of grit and chaos that tested Luke’s every movement. He had barely settled into the saddle, his thighs gripping the warrior’s horse tightly as it churned forward, its nostrils flaring with exertion. The cries of the wagon train faded behind him, swallowed by the growing cloud.

“Dalton! Where the hell you goin’?” Dobbs’ voice rang out.

Luke didn’t look back. He knew what Dobbs would see: a fool riding headlong into the maelstrom. The older man’s bark followed him into the storm, but Luke was already past the point of second thoughts.

He couldn’t turn back.

His grip on the Winchester was steady now, the weapon balanced in his left hand like a club. The barrel gleamed faintly in the dim light, scarred from years of service but still deadly. With his right hand, he drew the Colt revolver from his holster.

The horse moved beneath him in quick, nervous strides, its ears flicking back and forth as if it could sense the danger ahead. Luke leaned low over its neck, urging it forward with soft commands. He felt every muscle in his body tighten.

Shapes loomed in the dust—shifting shadows that came and went, fleeting as ghosts. He couldn’t make out faces, couldn’t count numbers, but he knew they were there. Watching. Waiting.

A rider burst from the haze, his painted face streaked with sweat and dirt, his war club raised high. Luke didn’t think; he acted.

He swung the Winchester in a wide arc, the butt of the rifle catching the brave across the jaw. The man tumbled from his pony, his weapon spinning away as he hit the ground.

Luke’s stolen horse reared, whinnying in alarm. He yanked the reins, forcing the animal back down, then dug his heels into its flanks. They surged forward again, deeper into the storm.

Another figure appeared—this one on foot, a bow drawn tight in his hands. Luke raised the Colt, squeezing off a shot. The pistol’s roar was deafening in the confined space, and the archer crumpled to the ground, his arrow clattering uselessly at his side.

Luke pushed on, his breath coming hard and fast now. The dust was thicker here, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and gunpowder. His eyes burned, but he didn’t dare blink.

He could feel them closing in around him, the riders circling like wolves. He wasn’t a fool; he knew the odds. But he also knew the chaos he could cause, cutting through their ranks and drawing their attention away from the wagons.

A sharp whistle cut through the air—a signal, quick and deliberate. Luke shifted his gaze, scanning the haze for its source. He caught a glimpse of movement to his left, the faintest outline of a rider silhouetted against the dusty sky.

He didn’t hesitate. He wheeled the horse around, spurring it toward the figure. The Winchester was still in his hand, ready to swing, and the Colt gleamed darkly in the other, its barrel already smoking.

The rider turned, his eyes widening as he saw Luke bearing down on him. He raised his spear, a weapon tipped with flint that glinted in the dim light.

Luke leaned low, his heart hammering in his chest. He swung the Winchester again, the blow striking the rider’s shoulder and knocking him from the saddle. The man hit the ground with a heavy thud, his spear falling from his grasp.

Luke didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Another whistle pierced the air, and this time, it was closer. Luke’s fingers curled tighter around the reins. He could feel the storm closing in around him, the riders gathering their strength for another strike.

But he didn’t flinch.

He reined the horse to a halt, its flanks heaving as it pawed at the ground. The dust swirled around him, obscuring everything but the faint outlines of the approaching riders.

Luke raised the Colt, its barrel steady despite the tremor of his breath. The Winchester hung at his side, ready to swing at the first sign of movement.

His eyes narrowed, piercing through the haze. He could hear them now—the thunder of hooves, the sharp cries that echoed through the storm.

He didn’t plan to wait for them to come.

Shaking the blood from his face, Luke kicked his heels into the horse’s sides, urging it forward one more time.

“Come on, then!”

Chapter Three

The dust masked the shapes, blurring the line between the living and the dead. Every breath Luke took was thick with it, a dry, acrid taste that burned in his lungs. The cries of the wagon train faded into the distance as he rode deeper into the storm, his Winchester gripped tight in one hand, his Colt in the other.

He didn’t stop moving. The stolen horse’s hooves churned the earth beneath them in a steady, relentless rhythm. Shapes emerged from the haze—a shadow here, a flash of movement there. Luke fired, the pistol kicking in his hand as he picked off another rider. The warrior’s body jerked and tumbled from his horse, vanishing into the swirling dust like a sinking stone.

An arrow zipped past Luke’s head, a sharp kiss of wind against his cheek. He swung the Winchester up, turning it into a makeshift shield as another arrow thudded into the wooden stock. The horse beneath him shifted nervously, sensing the danger all around them.

“Steady,” Luke murmured. He spurred the animal forward, its ears flicking as more war cries echoed through the storm.

Another rider appeared on his right, this one closer than the last. The brave raised a tomahawk. Luke’s pistol roared again, the shot striking true. The man slumped in his saddle, his weapon falling uselessly to the ground.

Luke’s hand moved automatically, his thumb cocking the Colt’s hammer for another shot. But when he squeezed the trigger, all he got was a hollow click.

“Dammit,” he muttered. He shoved the empty pistol back into its holster, shifting his grip on the Winchester.

Moving fast, Luke pulled the loading gate open, fishing for a cartridge.

The dust thinned, and Luke could see a faint glimmer of sunlight breaking through the storm. He urged the horse toward it, knowing he couldn’t stay hidden in the haze forever.

When he emerged from the cloud, the sunlight hit him like a slap. His eyes adjusted quickly, scanning the open plains ahead. But the respite was short-lived.

Two braves were waiting for him.

They were mounted, their ponies restless beneath them. One carried a bow and the other gripped a long spear, its tip glinting with flint. Their faces were calm, their eyes locked on Luke with a quiet intensity.

Luke didn’t hesitate. He raised the Colt again, his hand moving by instinct even though he knew the chamber was empty. He cursed under his breath and dropped the pistol, searching his pocket. They braced. He loaded it with expert speed, swinging the Winchester into position.

The arrow set to fly.

Bang!

The rifle cracked, its loud report splitting the air. The archer’s head snapped back, his body sliding from the saddle before crumpling to the ground. His arrow flew wild, striking the second rider in the back.

Luke turned his horse, already looking for his next target, but the movement wasn’t fast enough.

From the side, another brave lunged the spear at Luke’s chest. Luke swung the Winchester, but the man ducked low, easily dodging the blow. The next instant, the brave leaped from his horse, tackling Luke out of the saddle.

The impact knocked the wind from Luke’s lungs, the two of them tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and dust. Luke’s rifle flew from his hands, landing several feet away.

The brave moved first, quick as a striking snake. He straddled Luke, his hands reaching for the knife at his waist. Luke grabbed the man’s wrists, muscles straining as they grappled for control.

The dust churned around them, thick and cloying. Luke could hear the distant cries of the wagon train, the crack of gunfire echoing through the haze. But here, on the ground, everything felt quiet—still, even—as he stared into the brave’s eyes, dark and unrelenting.

With a desperate grunt, Luke twisted, using his weight to roll them both over. The brave didn’t let go, his grip like iron as they struggled in the dirt. Luke’s hand groped blindly for his knife, his fingers brushing the hilt.

The man above him bared his teeth, the blade flashing in his hand. Luke braced himself, tightening his grip on the hilt of his own knife.

Luke’s knife was halfway free of its sheath when the brave slammed his forearm down, pinning Luke’s arm to the ground. The blade hovered just out of reach, mocking him as the man straddled his chest, a triumphant glint in his eyes.

Luke bucked wildly, his legs twisting beneath him. The movement was enough to shift the weight on his chest, throwing the brave slightly off balance. Luke seized the moment, wrenching his pinned arm free and driving his elbow into the man’s ribs.

The sharp grunt of pain spurred Luke on. He shoved hard, rolling them both through the dust in a chaotic blur of limbs. The world spun, the cloud of grit and sweat blinding and choking him. They came to a stop with Luke on top, his knees digging into the other man’s shoulders.

The brave lashed out, his fist catching Luke’s jaw with a crack that sent stars bursting across his vision. Luke’s head snapped back, and his grip faltered. The man surged upward, nearly dislodging him, but Luke slammed him back down with all the weight he could muster.

His fist connected with the brave’s cheekbone, a brutal, bone-jarring impact. Dust flew from the man’s hair as his head snapped to the side. Luke hit him again and again, the sound of each strike muffled by the wild wind.

The brave’s resistance weakened, his arms flailing before dropping to his sides. Luke raised his fist one last time but hesitated, his breath ragged and uneven. He could feel the man’s chest heaving beneath him.

He lowered his fist.

Rolling off the unconscious man, Luke sat back on his heels, his shoulders rising and falling with each shuddering breath. Dust clung to his skin, mixing with the blood and sweat that streaked his face.

The fight was over.

He staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. Around him, the dust was beginning to settle, the swirling chaos giving way to a clearer view of the plains. The ground was littered with bodies, some still and others writhing in pain.

Luke turned toward the wagons. “Hold up! It’s done!”

His words carried across the high plains, cutting through the lingering chaos. He saw movement near the wagons—a figure raising a hand in acknowledgment, the glint of a rifle barrel lowered.

The dust cloud dissipated further, revealing the battered remnants of the wagon train. Horses stamped nervously, their flanks dark with sweat, while men and women emerged cautiously from their hiding places.

Luke wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze drifting back to the brave lying unconscious in the dirt. For a brief moment, the cost of survival washed over him, the thin line that separated the living from the dead.

But there was no time for reflection. Not yet. He turned and began walking back toward the wagons with heavy steps, his mind already turning to what would come next.

Chapter Four

The battlefield was dead quiet, save for the low moans of the wounded and the occasional nicker of a nervous horse. Luke searched the shimmering air, finding that Pistol stood above another fallen horse, nuzzling it slightly as though searching for signs of life.

“There you are!” Luke said.

He approached the Mustang, patting his neck. Pistol neighed, acknowledging him.

The dust was settling, leaving the air heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the sour stink of sweat and fear. Luke walked among the aftermath, his boots crunching over the dry earth.

Beside him, Mr. Dobbs moved with the same somber purpose. His expression as steady as always, his dark eyes flicked over each still form. Together, they surveyed the carnage, the grim tally of the morning’s fight.

The braves lay where they had fallen, their bodies twisted in death. Luke counted at least six, some still clutching weapons, their faces streaked with paint and dust. His eyes lingered on one of the younger ones, barely more than a boy, with blood soaking through a jagged tear in his chest. He swallowed hard and turned away.

They’d lost three of their own as well. The bodies of the pioneers were clustered near the wagons, where they had fallen during the initial attack. A woman knelt beside one of them, her hands clasped in prayer, her face streaked with tears.

“Hell of a morning,” Dobbs muttered. He knelt to check a nearby rifle, frowning at the jammed mechanism before tossing it aside.

Luke nodded grimly. “Never gets easier.”

A shout drew their attention. One of the survivors—a wiry man with a sunburned face and wild eyes—was storming toward them, his fists clenched and his voice rising in anger.

“This is what you call protection?” the man yelled. He jabbed a finger at Luke. “We trusted you to get us to Salt Lake, not to walk us into a damn massacre!”

Luke straightened. He held his ground as the man came closer, foam building around his lips.

“I warned all of you,” Luke said evenly. His voice carried just enough force to cut through the man’s rant. “This road ain’t safe. Never has been. I told you that before we left Kansas. Told you it’d be dangerous, and that there’d be no guarantees.”

“Guarantees?” The man’s face flushed with anger. “You’re supposed to be the expert! You were supposed to keep us safe!”

Luke’s eyes narrowed, and he took a slow step forward. “I said I’d do my best to protect you. And that’s exactly what I’ve done. If we hadn’t fought back, none of you would be standing here right now.”

The man opened his mouth to argue, but Dobbs cut in.

“Enough.” He stepped between them, his gaze sharp as he glanced from Luke to the furious pioneer. “Ain’t nobody here who wanted this. Least of all him. But there’s work to do now, and shouting about what’s done won’t bring anyone back.”

Without waiting for a response, Dobbs turned and strode toward the wagons. Luke followed him, leaving the man standing there with his fists clenched.

At the back of one of the wagons, Dobbs pulled out a pair of shovels, their handles worn smooth from years of use. He handed one to Luke, who took it without a word.

“Let’s get to it,” Dobbs said.

The two men walked back toward the fallen pioneers. The woman who had been praying looked up as they approached, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Luke paused, meeting her gaze.

“We’ll bury them proper,” he said quietly.

She nodded, her lips trembling as she turned back to the body at her feet.

Luke and Dobbs set to work, the shovels biting into the hard-packed earth. The sun beat down on them, unrelenting, as they dug the shallow graves. Each shovelful of dirt felt heavier than the last.

The others began to gather, some lending a hand, others standing silently as the first grave was filled.

As Luke straightened from the second grave, his back aching and his hands raw, he glanced toward the horizon. The plains stretched out before them, vast and indifferent, as if nothing had happened. The trail didn’t care about their struggles. It didn’t care about their dead.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at Dobbs. “Reckon we’ve got a ways to go yet.”

Dobbs nodded. “Always do.”

“Luke!”

It was a woman’s voice. The shout drew his attention. He turned to see the older woman was standing, making a sign of the cross. She stood by Josiah, one of the younger pioneers, kneeling by a dead brave. The knife in Josiah’s hand glinted in the sunlight as he leaned closer to the body.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Luke demanded.

Josiah didn’t look up. “I got every right,” he growled. “They killed my brother. I’m takin’ this one’s scalp for him.”

Luke felt anger rising. He strode over quickly, his steps deliberate and heavy. Dobbs followed, hanging back a little, watching.

“You think that’s justice?” Luke asked when he reached Josiah. His voice was low but sharp enough to draw the attention of others nearby.

Josiah looked up at him, his face red with fury and streaked with tears. “He don’t deserve respect,” he snapped. “None of them do. Not after what they done.”

Luke stared down at him, his gaze steady and unyielding. “We’re not doing this,” he said. “Not here. Not now.”

“They wouldn’t show us mercy!” Josiah shot back. “You think they’d bury us? You think they’d let us lie in peace?”

“Maybe not,” Luke said. “But we ain’t them.”

Josiah’s hands shook, his grip tightening on the knife. He snarled, “I ain’t lettin’ it go.”

Luke moved fast. Before Josiah could react, he grabbed the younger man’s wrist and twisted, forcing the knife from his hand. Josiah yelped in pain, but Luke didn’t let up. With his free hand, Luke balled a fist and drove it hard into Josiah’s jaw.

The impact sent Josiah sprawling in the dirt. He stayed there for a moment, stunned, his hand gingerly touching his bruised face.

Luke loomed over him, his shadow falling long in the midday sun. “You’re done,” he said. “Now get up and help bury our dead, or you can ride out alone.”

The surrounding pioneers had stopped what they were doing, watching the exchange in tense silence. Josiah finally pushed himself up, his shoulders slumping. His anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by shame.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not meeting Luke’s eyes.

Luke bent down and picked up the knife, handing it back to him hilt-first. “Tell it to the dead.”

Josiah nodded and shuffled away, keeping his head down. Luke let out a slow breath and turned back to Dobbs, who had watched the whole scene with a neutral expression.

“Reckon you got through to him,” Dobbs said, handing Luke one of the shovels he’d retrieved from the wagon.

“We’ll see,” Luke muttered.

The continued work of digging more graves was brutal under the unforgiving sun. The ground was dry and hard, resisting every blow of the shovel. Luke and Dobbs worked in grim silence, their sweat dripping into the dirt as they dug hole after hole.

The travelers gathered, some helping with the digging, others standing in small, somber groups. A few held onto children, keeping them turned away from the sight of the dead. Luke paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He glanced at one of the pioneers, a young woman kneeling by a fresh grave. Her hands were folded, her lips moving silently in prayer.

Dobbs tossed another shovel of dirt over his shoulder and straightened. “We bury ‘em right,” he said. “Ain’t much, but it’s somethin’.”

Luke nodded. “It’s all we can do.”

When the last grave was filled, the group gathered around for a final prayer. Luke stood apart, his head bowed. He wasn’t much for praying, but he understood its importance for those who were.

The prayer ended and the group began to disperse, their movements slow and heavy. Dobbs leaned on his shovel with his eyes scanning the horizon.

“We need to move,” he said. “Daylight’s burnin’, and this place don’t feel right.”

Luke nodded, his shoulders tightening. “Mount up,” he called to the others. “We’re heading out.”

The wagon train creaked into motion, the oxen straining against their yokes. Luke rode ahead with Dobbs. Dust kicked up around the wagons, settling on everything like a fine powder.

Dobbs broke the silence. “That kid back there, Josiah. You reckon he’ll stick?”

Luke kept his eyes forward, his jaw tight. “If he don’t, it’s his choice. I’m not draggin’ anyone along who don’t want to be here.”

Dobbs grunted in agreement. “Fair enough.”

The two men rode on, the wagon train following behind like a fragile thread stretched thin across the endless landscape. Ahead, the Overland Trail wound its way through the high plains, promising more danger, more hardship, and a glimpse of hope beyond the mountains.