“Who knows you rode toward the trading post?”
“My hired hand.
Some ranchers.
Men at Miller’s store.”
“Enemies?”
Ethan almost laughed.
“I’m a cattleman.
That narrows it to half the territory.”
Ayana did not smile.
“Someone wanted you specifically.”
Ethan stared at the map.
Why him?
He owned little.
His ranch was small.
His parents were dead.
He had no wife.
No children.
No political importance.
Unless—
He frowned.
Whitehawk noticed.
“What?”
“There’s a railroad survey.”
Stone Elk leaned forward.
“What railroad?”
“A company from back east.
Arizona Continental.”
Ayana’s eyes sharpened.
“They want your land?”
“Not exactly.
They want access through the valley.”
“How much land?”
Ethan hesitated.
“A great deal.”
Whitehawk’s jaw tightened.
“Through whose territory?”
Ethan looked at him.
“Yours.”
Nobody spoke.
The railroad company had been negotiating with ranchers for months.
Buying access.
Purchasing water rights.
Pressuring stubborn landowners.
Ethan had refused to sell one narrow strip because it contained the only dependable spring within miles.
Without that spring, cattle drives through the western route would become nearly impossible.
He had thought his refusal merely inconvenient.
Now he wondered if it had become dangerous.
“There’s a man,” Ethan said.
“Name?”
Whitehawk asked.
“Silas Vane.”
Even saying it made something unpleasant move through Ethan.
“Railroad agent.
Maybe more than an agent.
He offered me three times what my land was worth.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ethan looked at the fire.
“My father is buried there.”
Ayana watched him.
“That is the only reason?”
“No.”
He picked up a small stone and turned it between his fingers.
“There’s a spring on the property.
If Vane controls it, every rancher traveling west pays him for water.”
Whitehawk’s face hardened.
“And if his railway continues into this canyon?”
Ethan looked at him.
“He would want you gone.”
The pieces suddenly fit too easily.
Dead rancher.
Apache village blamed.
Retaliation.
Fear.
Army intervention.
Displacement.
Railroad expansion.
Ayana whispered,
“He does not need to defeat anyone.”
Ethan met her eyes.
“He just needs everyone else to start fighting.”
They planned through most of the night.
At dawn, Ethan would ride away visibly.
Scouts would secretly follow.
If whoever had arranged the trap was watching, they might reveal themselves.
Ayana volunteered to accompany the scouts.
Whitehawk immediately said no.
She immediately ignored him.
“Ayana.”
“You taught me to track.”
“That was my first mistake.”
“You taught me to shoot.”
“My second.”
“You taught me to think for myself.”
Whitehawk closed his eyes.
Stone Elk said, “That was clearly the worst.”
Even Ethan smiled.
Then Whitehawk looked at his daughter.
Fear briefly crossed the chief’s face.
Not fear of battle.
A father’s fear.
Ayana softened.
“I will be careful.”
Whitehawk touched her forehead.
“You always say that immediately before doing something dangerous.”
“Because you only remember the dangerous things.”
“I remember everything.”
For the first time that night, Ethan saw something beyond chiefs, warriors, strangers, and possible enemies.
He saw a father who had already buried one woman he loved and could not imagine burying another.
And Ayana saw him notice.
At sunrise Ethan saddled Copper.
He rode south alone.
At least, he appeared alone.
Ayana and three scouts moved along the ridge.
For almost an hour, nothing happened.
Then Ethan reached a narrow wash.
A rifle cracked.
Copper reared.
The bullet tore through Ethan’s hat.
