Chapter 11 : O'Driscoll Scouts
Charles had the tracks read before Spencer finished his coffee.
"Three men. Same horses as the ridge patrol — I recognize the shoe pattern on the lead mount." Charles moved along the track line in a crouch, fingers brushing the snow without disturbing it. The morning light was thin, barely enough to work with, but Charles read ground the way other people read newspapers. "They circled camp twice. Stopped here—" he pointed to a compressed area where hooves had milled, "—for about ten minutes. Watching."
"Ten minutes. Thirty yards from camp." Javier's voice carried the specific edge of a man who'd been on the wrong end of ambushes before. "And nobody on guard saw them?"
Spencer's gut clenched. He'd been on the guard post. He'd been watching the ridge, the northern approach, the open ground — not the eastern tree cover where the riders had evidently threaded between pines with the patience of men who knew exactly what they were doing.
The system offered unhelpful confirmation:
[THREAT ASSESSMENT UPDATE]
[O'Driscoll scout team: 3 confirmed riders]
[Behavior pattern: RECONNAISSANCE — mapping defenses, counting personnel, identifying approach routes]
[Assessment: Preparation for larger engagement. Timeline: 2-5 days.]
Two to five days. The same window as their food supply.
"We need to deal with this," Spencer said. "Now. Before they report back with enough detail to plan an assault."
The main cabin filled fast. Dutch stood by the fire — his default position, the spot where authority and warmth intersected. Hosea sat in the corner, coughing into his fist with increasing frequency. Bill leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to hit something. Micah lounged near Dutch's right side — positioned, Spencer noted, exactly where an advisor would stand.
"They're testing us," Dutch said. His voice carried the weight of a man processing bad news through the filter of his own mythology. "Colm wants to know if we're wounded enough to take."
"We are wounded enough to take," Hosea said quietly. "That's the problem."
"So we hit first." Micah leaned forward. "Ride out in force, find their camp, burn it down. Send a message."
"With what force?" Spencer kept his tone level. The callback to the supply count was deliberate — ground the argument in numbers, not bravado. "We've got a hundred and forty-seven rounds across all calibers and twenty-two people, half of whom are non-combatants. A full ride-out leaves camp undefended with women and children inside."
Micah's lip curled. "So what do you suggest, cowpoke? We sit here and wait for them to pick us off?"
"A strike team. Three people. Find their scout camp — Charles says they've been circling from the northeast, which means they're based no more than a mile out. We go quiet, go fast, and remove them before they can report." Spencer addressed Dutch directly. "Surgical. No survivors to carry intelligence back to Colm."
Dutch's fingers drummed on the mantelpiece. His eyes moved between Spencer and Micah — measuring, weighing. The territorial wariness from their private conversation still lingered, but Spencer had framed this as a tactical proposal, not a leadership challenge.
"Who?" Dutch asked.
"Me. Charles. Javier."
"Why Javier and not me?" Micah straightened.
"Charles tracks. Javier moves quiet. The mission needs precision, not firepower."
The insult was deliberate and calibrated. Micah was A-Rank Combat — genuine gunfighter material — but his approach to every problem was volume and violence. Excluding him from a stealth operation was tactically defensible and personally satisfying.
Micah's face darkened. "You're sidelining me."
"I'm putting the right people on the right job."
The cabin held its breath. Dutch looked at Hosea. The old man gave an almost imperceptible nod — the kind of gesture that carried thirty years of trust behind it.
"Arthur's plan makes sense," Dutch said. "Small team, quick strike, contain the problem." He turned to Spencer. "You leave at sunset. Charles leads the tracking. Javier covers your approach. You make sure none of them ride back to Colm. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And Arthur—" Dutch's hand settled on Spencer's shoulder. That practiced weight again. "Be careful. I can't afford to lose you."
The warmth in the words was genuine. So was the possessiveness. Dutch didn't say I care about you — he said I can't afford to lose you. The language of a man who measured people in terms of utility, even the ones he loved.
[DUTCH VAN DER LINDE — SANITY: 72% (Stable)]
[Mission approved. Strike team: Spencer/Arthur, Charles Smith, Javier Escuella.]
The meeting dissolved. Bill muttered about wanting to come along. Micah disappeared without a word — his system dot moving toward the horse paddock, then the perimeter, then Dutch's cabin again. Circling. Always circling.
Spencer found Charles at the eastern treeline, already studying the tracks for directional patterns.
"Northeast. About forty minutes on horseback, faster on foot if you know the terrain." Charles glanced up. "I know the terrain."
"Tonight, then."
"Tonight." Charles checked his arrows. Drew one, inspected the head, returned it to the quiver. Drew another. The same quiet habit Spencer had watched during their hunting trip — the pre-mission ritual of a man who trusted his equipment because he maintained it himself. "Spencer."
Spencer's blood froze. Then he processed — Charles had said Arthur. The name just sounded different in the mountain air, distorted by wind and distance and Spencer's own paranoia.
"Yeah?"
"Don't overthink this. We find them, we stop them. Simple."
Simple. Spencer loaded his revolver in the supply cabin thirty minutes before sunset. Each round clicked into the cylinder with mechanical precision — Arthur's hands performing a task they'd done ten thousand times. The weight of the loaded weapon was familiar and alien at once. Spencer had never fired a gun in his previous life. Arthur's body had killed more people than Spencer wanted to count.
The sunset bled red through the clouds. War-paint colors — the kind of sky that frontier people probably had superstitions about.
Spencer holstered the Cattleman, pulled on his coat, and walked toward the horses where Charles and Javier waited.
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