He Gave Water to a Giant Apache Woman. By Sunrise, Three Hundred Warriors Surrounded His Ranch.
Corvin Torne had always believed a man could hear death coming.
A rifle being cocked.
A horse breaking into a sudden gallop.
The unnatural silence of birds before violence.
But that morning, with nearly three hundred Apache warriors surrounding his ranch beneath a blood-colored sunrise, death made no sound at all.
The horses inside Corvin’s corral stood rigid.
No stamping.
No nervous whinnying.
Nothing.
Every animal stared toward the ridges.
And every ridge had riders on it.
Corvin stepped slowly away from the porch.
His Winchester remained inside the house.
For a moment, he considered going back for it.
Then he counted the silhouettes.
Fifty on the eastern rise.
Another hundred stretching north.
Scores more appearing against the western sky.
A rifle suddenly seemed ridiculous.
So Corvin simply stood beside his well with his hands visible.
The previous afternoon, he had given water to one injured woman.
By sunrise, an army had come to his door.
An elderly Apache warrior rode down from the eastern ridge.
Gray hair touched his shoulders. His face was deeply lined, but his back remained perfectly straight in the saddle.
He stopped fifty feet from Corvin.
Then he raised one hand.
Instantly, every rider surrounding the valley became motionless.
The old warrior pointed toward the stone well.
Then toward Corvin.
Finally, he spoke several words Corvin could not understand.
The warriors on the eastern ridge separated.
A horse emerged through the opening.
Corvin recognized the rider immediately.
The woman from yesterday.
Only now she looked entirely different.
The dust and dried blood had been washed from her face. Her long black hair had been braided. Turquoise beads gleamed against her buckskin clothing.
She was still astonishingly tall.
Even mounted, something about her size and posture made her impossible to ignore.
Yesterday she had barely been able to stand.
Today she rode as if the horse beneath her were an extension of her body.
Two men followed.
Between their horses they carried something long beneath a dark buffalo hide.
Corvin felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.
The woman dismounted.
She approached him without hesitation.
For several seconds they simply looked at each other.
Then she pointed toward her chest.
“Naya.”
Her voice was low and steady.
Corvin understood.
“Corvin.”
Something changed in her eyes when he said his name.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
That disturbed him more than the warriors.
Naya moved beside the covered bundle.
The two men lowered it carefully to the earth.
The elderly warrior spoke again.
This time another rider descended the ridge.
He was younger, perhaps forty, with a Mexican-style saddle and a worn brown coat. When he reached the yard, he dismounted and removed his hat.
