Nahimana laid a calm hand on Ethan’s forearm, stepping down from the porch. She didn't look
angry; her expression was terrifyingly tranquil. She walked directly toward Vance's stallion. The
horse, usually high-strung, suddenly flinched back, blowing its nostrils out in strange, nervous
panic.
Nahimana stopped three feet from Vance, looking up at him with her mismatched eyes.
"You ride a horse with a cracked right hoof, Marcus Vance," she spoke, her voice carrying a
quiet, echoing authority that cut through the wind. "You bring five men with guns because your
own heart is small and rotted like dry cedar. You think you buy this earth with paper and gold, but
the mountain remembers who spilled blood here."
Vance’s face flushed dark red with anger, though he involuntarily pulled back on his reins.
There was something in her strange, gold-specked gaze that sent a sudden, primal chill down his
spine.
"Keep your squaw on a leash, Miller!" Vance growled, trying to regain his composure. "You've
got three days to pack your wagon and clear out. If you're still here come Friday, my boys will
burn this cabin to the ground with both of you inside it. Let's go!"
Vance wheeled his horse around and galloped off, his men trailing behind him in a cloud of
dust.
Ethan watched them leave, his face grim. He looked at Nahimana, who was staring intently at
the dust trail left by the horses.
"They mean what they say," Ethan said quietly. "Vance has bought off the marshal in town. He’s
burned out two families near the river already."
"He is a coward who fights with shadows," Nahimana said, turning to him. "He brings fire
because he fears the cold. We will not run, Ethan."
"It's six against one, Nahimana," Ethan said, frustration leaking into his voice. "I can shoot, but I
can't hold off a siege by myself."
Nahimana looked toward the northern mountains, where the purple peaks of Black Mesa cut
into the sky.
"You are not by yourself," she said softly. "You saved a chief. You gave a home to his daughter. It
is time for the mountain to pay its debts."
14
The deadline arrived on a moonless Friday night. A thick, icy fog rolled down from Black Mesa,
cloaking the valley in a dense blanket of grey silence.
Ethan sat in the darkened living room of the cabin, his Winchester rifle resting across his
knees, a double-barrel shotgun leaning against the oak table. He had boarded up the windows
from the inside, leaving narrow rifle slits through which he could watch the yard. Nahimana sat
beside him in the dark, her hand holding a sharp hunting knife, her breathing calm and steady.
At midnight, the quiet was broken by the muffled thud of hooves on damp grass.
Through the rifle slit, Ethan saw six shadows emerging from the tree line near the spring. They
carried torches of pitch pine and kerosene cans. Vance had not brought his men to negotiate; he
had come to destroy.
"Stay down," Ethan whispered to Nahimana, raising his rifle.
He aimed at the leading rider—Tex, the gunman—and squeezed the trigger.
CRACK!
The flash of the Winchester lit up the dark room. Tex let out a shriek as the bullet struck his
shoulder, knocking him clear out of his saddle. The horse reared up, screaming in terror.
"Burn 'em out!" Vance’s voice bellowed through the fog. "Set the barn on fire first!"
Two riders galloped toward the timber barn, hurling lit torches onto the dry hay stored outside.
Flames erupted instantly, orange and wild, casting long, twisting shadows across the yard. Vance’s
men began pouring a hail of rifle fire into the cabin, bullets splintering the thick pine logs and
shattering the glass panes behind the wooden shutters.
Ethan fired back rapidly, cycling the lever of his Winchester, driving one gunman back behind
the stone well. But the fire at the barn was spreading fast, illuminating the yard in a bright, deadly
glare. They were trapped, surrounded by six armed men intent on murder.
Suddenly, a strange, high-pitched owl call echoed from the ridge above the cabin—once, twice,
three times.
Vance’s horse whinnyed violently, throwing its head back.
From the shadows of the woods surrounding the farm, silent figures emerged like ghosts from
the earth. They did not ride horses; they moved on foot, slipping through the tall grass without
making a sound.
15
It was Chief Mangas and twenty Chiricahua warriors, painted for war in black and red clay.
Before Vance’s gunmen could react, a volley of arrows hissed through the dark air. Two of
Vance's hands fell from their horses, struck down before they could even turn their weapons. The
terrifying war cries of the Apache shattered the night, echoing off the stone face of Black Mesa.
"Indians!" one of the surviving gunmen screamed in pure terror. "It's an ambush! Retreat!"
Panicked, Vance whipped his horse, trying to break through the circle of warriors toward the
south road. But Chief Mangas himself stepped out from behind the burning barn, his heavy rifle
leveled at Vance’s chest.
Mangas fired. The heavy lead ball struck Vance’s horse in the leg, sending the stallion crashing
to the earth. Vance tumbled hard into the red dirt, his ivory-handled revolver flying from his grip,
his fine coat ruined with mud and blood.
Within three minutes, the fight was over. Three of Vance's men lay dead in the grass; two were
bound hand and foot by Apache warriors; and Marcus Vance was pinned to the ground by the
boot of Chief Mangas.
Ethan threw open the cabin door and sprinted toward the barn with a bucket of water,
Nahimana right behind him. Together with several young Apache warriors, they doused the
burning hay with water from the spring, extinguishing the fire before it could consume the
wooden structure of the barn.
When the flames were finally extinguished, leaving only smoldering ash and grey smoke,