Nobody shouted.
The silence frightened him more than either would have.
An older warrior rode down from the eastern ridge.
Gray hair fell across his shoulders. He wore no elaborate paint or decoration, yet every man around him watched his smallest movement.
He stopped fifty feet from Corvin.
Then lifted one hand.
Every rider became motionless.
The old warrior pointed toward Corvin’s well.
Suddenly, the warriors along the ridge separated.
A path opened through them.
Another horse appeared.
Corvin’s breath caught.
It was her.
The woman he had given water to.
But she no longer resembled the exhausted stranger who had collapsed against his fence.
She sat tall and powerful in the saddle. Her face had been washed clean. Her dark hair was carefully braided. The turquoise beads around her neck gleamed brightly beneath the morning sun.
Two warriors followed her.
Between them, they carried a long bundle wrapped beneath a dark buffalo hide.
They dismounted.
Then carefully placed the bundle on the ground.
Corvin looked at it.
Then at the hundreds of warriors silently surrounding his ranch.
The older man spoke several words Corvin could not understand.
The woman dismounted.
She walked directly toward Corvin and stopped beside the covered bundle.
For several seconds, she simply looked into the eyes of the lonely rancher who had given her water when nobody else was watching.
Then she bent down.
Her fingers closed around the edge of the buffalo hide.
She pulled it back.
Every warrior on every ridge lowered his head.
And Corvin stopped breathing.
A young Apache man lay beneath the hide.
He could not have been older than twenty-five.
His hair was braided. His hands had been folded across his chest. Someone had washed the dust and blood from his face.
There was a dark bullet wound just below his collarbone.
But that wasn’t what froze Corvin.
Something rested between the dead man’s folded hands.
A knife.
A long hunting knife with a walnut handle and a silver crescent hammered into the pommel.
Corvin knew every scratch on it.
Because it belonged to him.
“That…” His voice cracked. “That’s my knife.”
The woman looked up.
For the first time, she spoke English.
“I know.”
Corvin’s stomach dropped.
He stared at the ridges.
Three hundred armed men.
A murdered Apache warrior.
And his knife lying on the dead man’s chest.
“My knife disappeared eleven days ago.”
No reaction.
“I didn’t kill him.”
Still nothing.
Corvin took one careful step backward.
“If you’ve come here for blood, there’s only me. No wife. No children. No ranch hands. You don’t need three hundred men.”
The woman rose.
“You think they came to kill you?”
Corvin glanced around.
“That’s generally what I assume when three hundred armed riders surround my breakfast.”
Something almost resembling amusement touched her eyes.
It vanished quickly.
She pointed toward the dead man.
“He was called Nantan.”
Her voice hardened.
“He was my brother.”
Corvin looked at her again.
“I am sorry.”
“He carried papers south.”
“What papers?”
“Papers that could stop a war.”
The older warrior spoke behind her.
The woman answered him quietly before returning her attention to Corvin.
