Episode 3: Coyote Ridge and Blood for Blood

The sun clawed its way over the jagged horizon as Calder Nash and Rhea Maddox rode toward a landscape that looked like the end of the world. Coyote Ridge wasn't on any official map. It was where men went to disappear—and others came to hunt them.

Their horses moved in tense silence, dust trailing behind like ghosts on their heels. Calder hadn't spoken much since they'd left Deadman's Hollow, and Rhea didn't ask questions. She was watching him, though—how he scanned every ridge, every shadow, every flicker of movement.

They crested a hill, and there it was.

Coyote Ridge.

The town looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by the desert. Half the buildings leaned like drunkards, and the other half looked one stiff breeze away from collapsing. A saloon with a crooked sign. A jailhouse with rusted bars. And a brothel painted red, its color long faded by the sun.

"This where you plan to die?" Rhea asked, squinting into the rising glare.

"Not today," Calder muttered. "We're not here to start a fight. Just get information."

They rode down into the dust-covered streets, heads turning as they passed. Men leaned against doorways, hands twitching near gun belts. A child peeked from behind a rain barrel, eyes wide with fear.

Inside the saloon, the air was thick with smoke and sweat. Piano music tinkled from a corner where a blind man played like he couldn't hear the tension crawling through the room.

Calder led Rhea to the bar. "Whiskey. Two."

The bartender poured without a word. His eyes lingered on Rhea.

"She don't drink," Calder snapped.

The man backed off.

"What now?" Rhea asked, her voice low.

"Now we wait."

And they did. For nearly an hour. Calder sipped his drink slow, scanning the room. Rhea didn't touch hers. She kept one hand near her revolver, the other curled into a fist.

Then he came in.

A skinny man with ink-stained fingers, black suspenders, and a nervous twitch in his left eye. Jonah Pike.

"I heard you were dead," he said, sliding into the booth beside them.

"I was," Calder said. "Got better."

Jonah laughed once, like a man trying to hide fear. "You're looking for Vane. That's suicide."

"Where is he?"

Jonah looked at Rhea, then back at Calder. "She know what Vane did? What he really is?"

Calder's voice went flat. "Tell me."

Jonah leaned in. "He ain't just running Blackthorn anymore. He's building something bigger. Some kind of militia out west, deep in the canyons. Calls it the Ash Circle. They're raiding towns, recruiting killers. They wear masks now. Some say they don't even speak."

Rhea frowned. "And what do they want?"

Jonah licked his lips. "Chaos. Power. They're planning something, Calder. A storm's coming."

Before Calder could ask more, a window shattered.

Gunfire erupted.

The saloon exploded into chaos. Men screamed. Tables overturned. Someone pulled Rhea down just before a bullet punched through the wood above her.

Calder rolled, drew, and fired twice.

Two masked men fell. One twitched. One didn't.

Rhea was already moving, her revolver barking as she took cover behind the bar. She fired once, twice—and hit both.

Calder grabbed Jonah by the collar. "Did you lead them here?"

"No! I swear—"

Another shot. Jonah's head jerked back, blood misting the air.

Calder ducked. "Damn it."

"Back door!" Rhea yelled.

They sprinted, bullets singing past them. The door burst open and they stumbled into an alley.

Three more Blackthorn men waited.

Calder didn't hesitate.

He shot the first in the throat.

Rhea kicked the second into a wall and slammed her boot into his face.

The third ran.

"Let him go," Calder said, breathing hard. "He'll spread the right kind of fear."

They mounted fast and rode hard, leaving the Ridge behind as smoke rose behind them.

It was only once they'd cleared the hills that Rhea asked, "What the hell is the Ash Circle?"

Calder's jaw tightened. "Something I thought I buried ten years ago."

She looked at him sideways. "And you're gonna tell me what that means?"

He met her eyes. "Next town. Next fire."

Behind them, far off on a ridge, a figure watched through a spyglass.

The Whisperer.

Silent. Patient.

And very close.

The sun dipped low, casting a burnt orange hue across the canyon trail. Calder Nash's horse was slick with sweat, muscles twitching as it climbed the steep path west of Coyote Ridge. Rhea Maddox rode behind him, eyes locked on the clouds that curled in the distance like smoke signals. Thunder rumbled on the horizon, but the storm they were riding into had nothing to do with weather.

They didn't speak for miles.

Each mile carried weight—of death, of betrayal, of the past. Calder's thoughts were a warzone. The name Ash Circle hadn't surfaced in a decade, yet now it echoed like a war drum in his chest. Memories he'd buried deep were clawing back to life.

"Calder," Rhea said finally, reining in beside him. "You gonna tell me who the Ash Circle really is? Or do I need to find out when they come slicing my throat in the night?"

He didn't answer right away. Then:

"They were... something else, once. We weren't always outlaws. It was a brotherhood. Soldiers broken by war, men who came home and found nothing left worth saving. Vane was one of us. So was I."

Rhea looked stunned. "You rode with them?"

Calder nodded. "Until Vane changed. Started believing the world owed him. He wanted to burn it all down—make a new one out of ash. I tried to stop him. Failed. Walked away, thinking it would die without me."

"But it didn't."

"No. It grew teeth."

Rhea gripped her reins tighter. "Then we rip those teeth out."

They rode till night, until a canyon known as Whistler's Hollow yawned before them like a scar in the earth. Word was, Ash Circle scouts were using the hollow to move supplies. Calder wasn't sure what they'd find—but he wasn't the type to wait around and guess.

They left the horses and descended into shadow.

The canyon walls towered above, cutting off moonlight. Crickets chirped. A coyote howled. Somewhere distant, metal clinked.

Rhea crouched behind a boulder. "Voices. That ridge."

Calder peeked around the rock. Three men stood near a fire. All masked. All armed. One had a lantern. Another checked crates—rifles, ammo, something heavy.

"We take them quiet," Calder whispered. "Fast."

They split up.

Rhea flanked left, boots silent on loose gravel. She drew her blade—not a gun. A quick, silent kill was cleaner. Calder moved right, revolver drawn.

The first man never saw her.

She slit his throat from behind, catching his body as it fell.

Calder stepped from the shadows and shot the second square in the chest before the third could scream. The masked man lunged, knife flashing.

But Calder was faster. He twisted, grabbed the wrist, and slammed the butt of his revolver into the man's skull. The mask slipped off.

It was just a boy. Maybe sixteen.

Rhea stared. "Damn... they're recruiting kids."

Calder's voice was ice. "They don't care who bleeds, long as the job gets done."

They dragged the bodies into the rocks and searched the crates. Explosives. Enough to level a town.

"Where were they headed?" Rhea asked.

Calder found a map tucked inside a crate lid. A red X marked Whitemoor Crossing.

"That's a day's ride. Farming town. Railroad hub."

Rhea paled. "They hit that place, it'll be a massacre."

Calder nodded grimly. "Then we ride through the night."

They reached the horses just before dawn. The trail was narrow, winding, treacherous. Sleep tugged at their bones but the urgency burned hotter. By midday, Whitemoor's grain silos came into view.

But so did the smoke.

Black columns rising.

They galloped into chaos.

Buildings burned. Civilians screamed. Gunfire echoed.

Masked men swarmed the streets like locusts, setting fire to homes, dragging people out into the dirt. Calder didn't wait. He leapt from his saddle mid-gallop and took cover behind a wagon.

Rhea dismounted beside him, already firing. Two Ash Circle men fell before they turned.

A young girl, no older than ten, darted across the road—screaming.

An Ash soldier raised his rifle.

Calder dropped him with a headshot.

"Split up!" he shouted.

They did.

Calder pushed through the flames, dodging gunfire. He found a group of survivors holed up in the blacksmith's shop.

"Get out the back. Stay low. Go north."

The blacksmith nodded, clutching his wounded arm.

Rhea was on the other side of town, using the rooftops. She sniped down into the crowd, each shot clean. She moved like a shadow, never still, never predictable.

Then she saw him.

A man on horseback, wearing a crimson scarf.

Vane.

He watched the destruction like an artist admiring his work. Calm. Detached. Then his eyes met Rhea's.

And he smiled.

She fired.

He ducked.

The bullet clipped his shoulder, but he rode off through the fire.

"VANE!" she screamed, giving chase.

Calder caught up minutes later. "Where is he?!"

She pointed. "West trail. Bleeding."

They followed.

But the trail ended at the river.

Hoofprints disappeared into the water. Vane had vanished.

Calder kicked a rock. "Damn him!"

Rhea stared across the water, fists clenched. "Next time, he won't ride away."

Behind them, Whitemoor smoldered. Dozens dead. Hundreds more left homeless.

Calder looked at the destruction and made a vow:

"No more running. No more waiting. We take the fight to him. Burn his empire down."

Rhea nodded, eyes hard. "Blood for blood."

And somewhere deep in the desert, in a blackened fortress of stone and sand, Vane pressed a cloth to his wound.

The Whisperer stood at his side.

"They've chosen war," it rasped.

Vane smiled faintly. "Then let them taste it."