The heavy thud of the iron deadbolt sliding home echoed through the cavernous timber entryway like a gunshot.

The snow was falling in thick, blinding sheets by the time the three riders crested the final ridge leading up to Bitter Peak.

From their vantage point high inside the reinforced stone watchtower built into the cabin's roof, Josephine and Gideon tracked their approach through a pair of heavy brass field glasses.

"Do you know them?" Josephine asked, her hands steady as she rested the barrel of her ten-gauge shotgun against the narrow firing slit.

"The one in the lead is Marcus Vance," Gideon replied, his face carved from stone as he peered through his own scope. "Clement Reed’s personal enforcer. Former Confederate cavalry scout. He doesn't take prisoners, and he doesn't leave witnesses. The two behind him are local bounty hunters—cheap guns for hire out of Denver."

Down below in the main room, Wyatt stood guard over the younger children, who had been tucked safely into the root cellar beneath the floorboards with a lantern, extra blankets, and a loaf of fresh bread.

"They're stopping at the lower gate," Gideon muttered, lowering his glasses. "They found the tracks our horses left last night."

"Can we hold them off from here?" Josephine asked.

"We aren't going to wait for them to reach the porch," Gideon said, turning sharply toward the trapdoor. "Vance knows this cabin. If he gets close enough to deploy dynamite against the foundation, this whole place comes down on our heads. We take the high ground at Devil's Gate."

"Devil's Gate?"

"A narrow gorge about two hundred yards down the trail where the path narrows to a single ledge. One man with a rifle can hold off an entire platoon there."

Without waiting for her confirmation, Gideon vaulted through the trapdoor, landing lightly on the main floor. He grabbed his Winchester and motioned for Josephine to follow.

"Wyatt," Gideon called down toward the open root cellar doors. "Keep the children down. If you hear shooting, do not come out for any reason. Understand?"

"I understand," Wyatt’s voice echoed back, firm and resolute.

Minutes later, Gideon and Josephine were racing through the blinding snow, their boots sinking deep into the powdery drifts as they scrambled along the narrow, winding game trail that led away from the cabin toward the gorge. The wind whipped their faces raw, stinging their skin like salt rubbed into an open wound, but neither of them slowed their pace.

As they reached the jagged outcropping known as Devil’s Gate, the canyon walls closed in around them like the jaws of a giant stone beast. Below them, a freezing mountain stream rushed violently over jagged boulders.

"Get down behind that fallen pine," Gideon instructed, dropping to his stomach in the snow and sweeping the safety off his rifle. Josephine slid in beside him, her heart pounding against her ribs as she cocked both barrels of her shotgun.

A few moments later, the muffled sound of horses' hooves echoed through the falling snow.

Three dark figures emerged from the swirling white haze, their horses stepping cautiously along the narrow ledge. Marcus Vance rode at the front, his Stetson pulled low over his eyes, a heavy Remington revolver holstered at his hip.

As they reached the center of the gorge, Vance suddenly reined his horse to a halt. His hand went up, signaling the two bounty hunters behind him to freeze.

Vance slowly tilted his head, his cold, calculating eyes scanning the snow-covered rocks above them. He could see the faint, fading prints of Gideon's horse tracks leading further up the trail—but something in the crisp mountain air had triggered his survival instincts.

"Hold up," Vance muttered, his voice carrying clearly across the gorge. He reached down and drew his revolver. "We've been made."