Chapter Twenty?Six — The Way-Station in Ashes

  By late afternoon, the heat had settled into an oppressive stillness that made even the oxen drag their hooves in protest. Sweat trickled down the backs of men who had run out of curses. Women fanned exhausted children with scraps of canvas. Even Finch’s horse seemed to resent the decision to keep moving.

  “We stop at the way?station up ahead,” Finch called back. “Water, shelter, maybe grain if we’re lucky.”

  A ripple of hope moved through the weary company. Food. Cool shade. A roof. A place that wasn’t crawling with dust and danger.

  Jonah elbowed Miles lightly. “Hot meal sounds like heaven.”

  Miles nodded, though something inside him tugged — a faint warning, a whisper that didn’t come from words. Maybe Ptesá?’s charm. Maybe the land. Maybe his own instincts sharpening after too many close calls.

  When the station finally crested into view over the ridge, it was small — just three buildings, a corral, and a crude windmill. Jonah shaded his eyes.

  “Doesn’t look busy.”

  Miles’s stomach dropped. “It looks… wrong.”

  Because the windmill wasn’t turning.

  Because the corral gate hung crooked.

  Because there were no voices. No movement. No smoke.

  No life.

  Finch lifted a hand. The wagons stopped. Silence washed over the camp like a cold wave.

  Jonah stepped close, voice low. “Stay behind me when we go in.”

  Miles didn’t argue.

  Finch gathered three of the older trail hands. Jonah volunteered. Miles followed anyway.

  They approached the way?station cautiously, rifles raised.

  The first building — a small trading post — had its door hanging from one hinge. Jonah nudged it open with his boot.

  The smell hit them first.

  Not rot. Not death. Worse, in its own way.

  Abandonment.

  Shelves overturned. Barrels rummaged through. Flour scattered like pale dust across the floor. A broken lantern glinting on its side.

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  “Miles,” Jonah whispered, pointing at a trail of prints in the dust. “Boot tracks. A lot of ’em.”

  Miles knelt, examining the prints. Deep heels. Heavy gait. Close?set stride.

  And most damning — the horseshoe patterns outside.

  He’d seen these before.

  “Night riders,” Miles breathed.

  Jonah swore softly. “They hit this place before us.”

  Finch knelt beside them, jaw tight. “Scavengers. Thieves. Probably stripped the station clean.”

  “Maybe worse,” one of the trail hands muttered.

  They checked the next building — the bunkhouse. Bunk frames knocked over. Blankets missing. Personal items scattered, as if dropped mid?flight.

  Miles felt dread coil around his ribs.

  “Jonah,” he whispered, “this wasn’t a robbery.”

  Jonah met his eyes. “No.”

  A fight. A fast one. An ugly one.

  They reached the last building — the supply shed.

  It was burned.

  Blackened beams. Collapsed roof. Ashes still clinging to the corners of foundation stones.

  Finch’s face hardened. “They burned what they didn’t take.”

  “To hide tracks,” Jonah said.

  “Or to stop others from surviving,” Miles added quietly.

  Finch turned sharply. “Back to the train. Now. They may still be close.”

  They hurried back, scanning the ridges every few steps. The basin behind them hummed with danger. The open prairie ahead felt too exposed. The windmill’s broken silhouette loomed behind them like a bad omen.

  When they reached the wagons, fear spread fast among the families.

  “Is it safe?” “What happened there?” “Are the riders coming?” “What do we do?”

  Finch stood on the nearest wagon tongue and raised both hands. “Quiet!”

  The camp fell still.

  Finch spoke plainly — not sugarcoating, not softening the hard truth.

  “The way?station was attacked. Recently. Supplies taken. Buildings burned. We can’t rely on it for food or water.”

  A few women gasped. A baby began to cry.

  “We push on,” Finch said. “We ration harder. We keep watch in shifts. And we do not, under any circumstances, separate from the company.”

  Miles felt every eye flick toward him at that — him and Jonah. The hunting party earlier. The ambush. The danger they walked into.

  Esther paced forward with her son in her arms, her expression calm but heavy. “Captain, do you believe they’re nearby?”

  Finch hesitated — a rare crack in his iron composure.

  Then he nodded.

  “Yes.”

  A tremor moved through the gathered crowd.

  Jonah stepped closer to Miles until their shoulders almost brushed. “We’ll get through this,” he murmured.

  Miles wished he could believe it.

  But as the sun dipped behind the ridge and the burned way?station cast long black shadows across the prairie, one thought echoed in his mind like a drum:

  The night riders weren’t just hunting supplies. They were hunting the company.

  And the trail ahead was only growing narrower.