“Hance’s brother was the head of the Kingston Gang.”

Kingston Gang? Jericho’s pulse took a dive. That was the same gang whose treasure he’d been seeking the day Nash had fallen to his death.

“Hance found the map among his brother’s belongings,” Otis continued, “after his brother was hung for crimes. The trouble with the map was that it didn’t specify the mountain.”

With each word, Jericho’s muscles tensed even more. If only the Kingston Gang had never been in the area. If only they’d never buried any treasure. And if only no one had known about it, including him.

Loathing pushed up into Jericho’s chest—loathing for all the criminals who’d brought so much pain to his life. Not only had they taken his mom, but indirectly they’d taken his brother. And now they threatened to take the woman he loved.

As Otis peered again at Hance, Jericho acted on impulse. He darted forward.

Shifting his attention back to Jericho, Otis squeezed the trigger.

Jericho dove to the ground, the bullet nearly missing his head. He hit the cave floor hard, knocking the breath from his lungs, but he rolled forward and barreled into Otis. Before the outlaw could shoot again, Jericho slammed his arm and dislodged the gun, causing it to fall to the cave floor and skitter out of reach.

In the same motion, Jericho slipped his knife from his boot and pointed it at Otis. “Time for your reckoning, you piece of scum.”

Otis breathed in and out with a quick, shallow burst, then nodded. “Do it. Kill me.”

Jericho’s gut churned with the need to plunge the knife into Otis and twist it, making him pay for Nash, his mom, and every other innocent victim who’d suffered at the hands of criminals like him.

Otis shifted his fingers against his bloody arm wound and then winced before closing his eyes. “You’re not planning to turn into a coward now, are you?”

At the dare, the churning pushed into Jericho’s lungs, fanning the air there hot with hatred. He slipped the blade up and sawed at his bindings. The moment his hands were free, he slipped his fingers around Otis’s neck and squeezed hard.

Jericho jabbed the blade into Otis’s chest and drew blood. At the same time, he put pressure on Otis’s windpipe and cut off the man’s air supply. Already lacking oxygen, it wouldn’t take long to strangle him.

“That’s right,” Otis rasped out the words. “Punish me.”

Punish him? Jericho blinked. Was he wanting to yell, hit, and kick so that he could punish someone else for everything bad that had happened to him?

Was that why Otis had hurt others?