FORTY MILES OF BAD ROAD Colorado Territory, 1863 One crate. Twelve bottles. Eight gallons of liquid hell. When the Lucky Cuss silver mine pinches out, two hundred desperate souls stake their last hope on a single drift—one blast away from salvation or starvation. The powder that can open the vein is nitroglycerin: clear, oily, and eager to kill at the slightest jolt, spark, or sigh. Marshal Cole Ransom—haunted by a battlefield explosion that still smells of almonds—must escort the cargo forty miles of rutted trail to the railroad spur. With him ride a chemist who knows the math of detonation, a seventeen-year-old driver who whistles to keep from screaming, and a whiskey-soaked preacher convinced the bottles hold the Devil’s tears. No gunfire. No sudden moves. One cracked bottle already weeps. Every rut is a heartbeat. Every mile is a prayer. And the mountain is waiting to answer.