THE VEIL OF THE CHIEF’S DAUGHTER

 The Man Who Rode Into the Storm

The storm found Elias Boone three days before he found the Apache camp.

It came across the Arizona Territory without warning, dragging a wall of black clouds over the red mesas and turning the afternoon sun the color of old brass. Elias had been riding since sunrise, his horse struggling through the dry wash that wound between two lines of jagged rock.

He should have turned back.

Any sensible man would have.

But Elias Boone had never been accused of being sensible.

He had been called stubborn, reckless, hardheaded, and once, by a sheriff in Kansas, "the kind of fool who would ride straight into a burning barn just to see whether the horses were frightened."

Elias had answered that he had been there to save the horses.

The sheriff had replied, "That's exactly what I mean."

Now, twelve years after the Civil War, Elias was thirty-six years old and carried the quiet exhaustion of a man who had spent too many years watching people disappear.

He had once owned a small ranch in Colorado.

He had once had a wife.

He had once believed that a man could build a life simply by working hard enough.

All three beliefs had been buried beneath the same hill.

So Elias traveled.

He took cattle-driving jobs when they were available, guarded freight wagons when they were not, and occasionally worked as a hired gun when the pay was good and the employer was honest.

The last requirement was increasingly difficult to satisfy.

He had been riding south for six weeks when a letter found him in a dusty trading post.

The letter had come from an old acquaintance named Samuel Carter, a rancher who owned several hundred acres near the border.

Samuel needed help.

Not ordinary ranch help.

Men were disappearing along the northern trail. Horses were being stolen. A shipment of cattle had vanished without a trace.

Samuel had heard that Elias Boone was available.

The letter offered good money.

Elias accepted.

He never reached Samuel's ranch.

The storm did not care about contracts.

Lightning struck somewhere beyond the ridge, and thunder rolled through the canyon like artillery.

Elias pulled his hat lower.

"Easy, Duke."

The old chestnut horse snorted.

"I know."

Duke stumbled.

Elias immediately dismounted.

He placed a hand against the horse's neck and felt the animal trembling.

The ground beneath them had begun to change.

Rain was coming.

Not the gentle kind.

The kind that could fill a dry wash in minutes.

Elias looked toward the canyon walls.

There was nowhere safe to camp.

Then he saw smoke.

Thin.

Gray.

Rising from behind a ridge.

He hesitated.

Smoke meant people.

People meant danger.

But it also meant shelter.

Elias mounted again.

He followed the smoke.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself staring down into a valley.

There were horses.

Dozens of them.

A cluster of tents and wooden structures.

Armed riders stood near the entrance.

Apache.

Elias immediately reached for his revolver.

Then stopped.

He counted the riders.

At least twenty.

He was alone.

Even if he killed the first three, the next seventeen would kill him.

Elias slowly removed his hand from the gun.

A rider spotted him.

A shout went up.

Within seconds, every weapon in the camp seemed to turn toward him.

Elias raised both hands.

"I don't want trouble."

Three riders came forward.

They surrounded him.

The oldest of them had a scar running from his left temple down toward his jaw.

He studied Elias with eyes so dark they seemed almost black.

"You are far from the road," the man said.

Elias blinked.

The Apache spoke English.

"Storm pushed me off course."

"You entered our land."

"I didn't know."

The warrior looked at him.

"You know now."

Elias nodded.

"Yes."

The man motioned toward the camp.

"Come."

Elias had little choice.

He followed.

The camp was larger than he had expected. Families moved between shelters. Children watched him from behind blankets. Women carried baskets and bundles. Men stood in small groups, their expressions guarded.

Nobody smiled.

Elias couldn't blame them.

White men had brought enough trouble to the territory to make suspicion a survival skill.

He was led to the largest structure in the camp.

Inside sat a man Elias immediately recognized as the leader.

The Apache chief was older, perhaps sixty, with long silver-streaked hair and a face marked by years of war.

He wore a dark vest over a plain shirt.

A rifle rested against the wall beside him.

The scarred warrior bowed.

"Chief Nantan."

The chief's eyes moved to Elias.

"Name."

"Elias Boone."

"Why are you here?"

"I was traveling north."

"Why?"

"Work."

The chief stared.

"Everyone who enters another man's land has a reason."

Elias swallowed.

"I was hired to reach a ranch near the border."

"Samuel Carter?"

Elias's eyes narrowed.

"You know him?"

"I know of him."

Something in the chief's voice made Elias uneasy.

Before he could ask another question, a woman entered.

She carried a wooden bowl.

She was tall.

Very tall.

She wore a dark blue dress beneath a brown shawl.

A veil covered most of her face.

Elias saw only her eyes.

They were striking.

Green.

Not brown.

Not black.

Green.

She set the bowl beside the chief.

The chief looked at her.

"Leave us."

The woman hesitated.

Then looked at Elias.

For one strange second, Elias felt as if she were studying him rather than the other way around.