By dawn, dozens might be dead.
By noon, newspapers would carry a version of events designed long before the first shot.
Ethan looked around.
“We warn Tucson.”
“No time,” Ayana said.
“We send riders.”
“By the time help returns, it will be over.”
Whitehawk issued orders.
Women and children would be moved into the canyon caves.
Warriors would prepare defensive positions.
Ethan caught Ayana’s arm.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“My ranch.”
Whitehawk looked at him as though Ethan had proposed jumping into a fire.
Ethan continued quickly.
“Vane expects me dead.
If I appear at my ranch alive, his plan changes.”
Ayana understood.
“And if I appear with you?”
“Then he knows we know.”
Whitehawk stood.
“Which means he kills both of you immediately.”
Ethan nodded.
“Probably.”
Ayana smiled faintly.
“My father likes plans with better survival rates.”
“I noticed.”
Whitehawk approached Ethan.
“You will protect her.”
Ethan looked at Ayana.
“She seems remarkably capable of protecting herself.”
Whitehawk’s expression did not change.
“That was not my question.”
Ethan straightened.
“Yes.”
Whitehawk nodded.
“If she dies, I will find you even in the next world.”
Ethan blinked.
“That seems fair.”
They reached Ethan’s ranch near sunset.
Smoke rose from the chimney.
His hired hand, sixteen-year-old Caleb Moss, came running.
“Mr.
Walker!
Where in God’s name have you been?”
Then he saw Ayana and stopped.
Ethan dismounted.
“Long story.”
Caleb stared.
“Is she—”
“Not now.”
They moved quickly.
Ethan hid horses inside the ravine.
Caleb was sent through the back route toward Tucson carrying Tom’s metal token and a written statement.
“If you don’t find the sheriff,” Ethan told him, “find Judge Harper.”
Caleb swallowed.
“What about you?”
“Ride.”
The boy left.
Darkness came.
Ethan and Ayana waited inside the ranch house.
Hours passed.
Then hoofbeats.
Many.
Torches appeared.
Silas Vane rode at the front.
He was elegant even after sunset.
Black coat.
Silver watch chain.
Clean gloves.
The kind of man who seemed offended by dust itself.
His riders surrounded the house.
“Walker!”
Vane called.
Ethan stepped onto the porch.
Vane froze.
“That,” Ethan said, “is the face of a man disappointed to see me breathing.”
Vane recovered quickly.
Then Ayana stepped beside Ethan.
For the first time, genuine shock broke his composure.
He whispered,
“Eleanor.”
Ayana heard it.
“So you remember my mother.”
Vane’s face went white.
Then his expression changed into something colder.
“Remarkable.”
He looked at Ethan.
“You have no idea what you have involved yourself in.”
“I’m beginning to.”
Vane slowly dismounted.
“Miss Whitehawk—”
“Ayana.”
“Ayana.
You have been told a story.”
“I have been told many.”
“And you believe the chief?”
“My father.”
Vane smiled thinly.
“Of course.”
Ethan noticed movement beyond the barn.
More riders.
Too many.
Vane continued.
“Did he tell you Jeremiah Vale spent twenty years trying to recover his daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you Eleanor intended to leave him?”
Ayana stiffened.
Whitehawk had not said that.
Vane saw it.
“Ah.”
Ethan stepped forward.
“Careful.”
Vane ignored him.
“Your mother contacted her father secretly.
She wished to take you east.”
Ayana’s face tightened.
“That is a lie.”
“Is it?”
Vane reached into his coat.
Ethan drew his revolver.
Vane stopped.
“Paper.”
Slowly, he removed a folded letter.
He tossed it onto the porch.
Ayana opened it.
Her eyes moved across the page.
