They thought the wash would carry them through.
Three riders cut across Painted Wash at first light, chasing a man they swore wouldn't see sundown. The trail was clear. The ground was open. And the ridge above them looked empty.
It wasn't.
From the high ground, a rifle waits.
What starts as a hunt turns fast—too fast—into something else. Shots echo through the dry cut. Dust kicks. Men drop. And the truth comes hard: someone knew they were coming.
Now the wash runs both ways—forward into the gunfire or back the way they came, where something worse might be waiting.
In the broken country where shadows lie and distance deceives, there's only one rule left:
Cross fast… or don't cross at all.
