The instruction was passed down the line in quick, soft Apache hand signals.

The lead riders reached the mouth of the draw. The thunder of their horses' hooves doubled as the sound bounced violently off the narrow stone walls. Marcus Vance raised his right hand, pulling his horse down to a heavy trot as the passage narrowed.

"Keep moving!" Marcus shouted, his voice echoing off the limestone cliffs. "Clear the valley! Fire the shelters!"

The mercenaries squeezed into the narrow passage, packed tightly together three abreast.

When the lead riders reached a point directly below Ethan's position—less than thirty yards away—Ethan took a deep breath, lined up his front sight square on the chest of the horse directly behind Marcus Vance, and pulled the trigger.

The sharp crack of Ethan's Winchester shattered the morning silence.

The bullet struck the dirt an inch in front of the lead horse's hooves, sending a sharp spray of gravel and dust directly into the animal's face. The horse reared up wildly, whinnying in panic and throwing the second row of riders into complete confusion.

"Ambush!" a mercenary screamed, reaching for his carbine.

Ethan racked his rifle's lever with a crisp metallic clack, stood up halfway behind his stone breastwork, and shouted down into the canyon with a voice that echoed like thunder.

"That's far enough!" Ethan roared. "You're trespassing on territorial public land! Turn those horses around and ride back to Black Rock!"

Marcus Vance pulled his frightened bay horse under control, his scarred face twisting into a mask of pure rage as he looked up at the high ridge. He spotted Ethan standing against the sky.

"Cole!" Marcus spat, recognizing the young rancher from town. "You foolish bastard! You think you can stand in front of the Frontier Company? Shoot him down! Shoot them all down!"

Marcus drew his silver revolver and fired twice up at the ridge. The heavy lead bullets slammed into the sandstone wall six inches below Ethan's boots, showering him with sharp stone splinters.

"Fire!" Tomas ordered from the brush.

The ridge erupted in a deafening chorus of rifle fire.

The narrow passage turned into an inferno of smoke, thunder, and screaming horses.

The six Apache marksmen positioned along the high rim opened fire with deadly accuracy. Their initial volley did not target the riders directly, but shot the weapons out of their hands and struck the ground at their horses' feet, intentionally creating massive panic within the tightly packed ranks of the mercenaries.

Two horses stumbled and went down in the loose gravel, blocking the narrow exit path behind the lead riders. Mercenaries swore loudly, struggling to control their terrified mounts while blindly firing their carbines up at the flash of rifle fire along the high rock walls.

Ethan laid down his Winchester, picked up his heavy 12-gauge double-barrel shotgun, leaned over the edge of the ledge, and fired both barrels down into the rock wall directly above the mercenaries' heads.

A massive shower of heavy red limestone rocks and thick dust rained down onto the riders, blinding them and causing three more horses to throw their riders into the dirt.

"Retreat! Pull back!" a mercenary screamed, abandoning his carbine as he scrambled backward through the dust on his hands and knees.

"Stand your ground, damn you!" Marcus Vance roared, sweeping his silver revolver across the ridge line, firing blindly into the smoke. "There are only a few of them up there! Take the high ground!"

Marcus and four of his toughest Texas gunmen dismounted, leaving their horses in the canyon floor, and began scrambling up the steep, shale-covered southern slope toward Tomas's position, using large boulders for cover as they climbed.

"Ethan!" Tomas called out, pointing his rifle toward the climbing men. "They are coming up the southern wall!"

Ethan dropped two fresh brass buckshot shells into his shotgun, snapped the heavy breech shut, and ran along the top of the ridge toward the southern crest.

A mercenary popped his head over a limestone boulder ten feet below Ethan, raising a Colt revolver.

Ethan didn't give him the chance to level the weapon. He swung the stock of his shotgun down hard, striking the man square across the jaw. The mercenary went limp and slid thirty feet down the gravel slope, knocking two of his companions off their feet as he fell.

Meanwhile, on the northern side of the canyon, Tomas proved why his name was spoken with quiet respect across the territory.

Despite his age, the old Apache warrior moved across the jagged rocks with remarkable speed and silence. He fired his Springfield rifle with devastating rhythm—shoot, reload, shoot—dropping every mercenary who tried to set up a stationary firing position in the valley below.

For twenty minutes, the canyon echoed with the relentless roar of gunpowder and clashing iron.

The company mercenaries, despite their superior numbers and heavy firepower, were completely trapped. They were accustomed to terrorizing defenseless homesteaders who broke and ran at the first sign of trouble. They were entirely unprepared to face disciplined marksmen holding an impregnable high-ground defensive position.

By seven o'clock, seven of the company's horses had been scattered or wounded, four mercenaries lay injured in the dirt of the canyon floor, and the rest were pinned down behind small rocks, blinded by smoke and choked by yellow dust.

Marcus Vance lay huddled behind a fallen cottonwood trunk at the base of the cliff, his fine wool coat torn, his face covered in dark gunsmoke soot and red dust. He looked up at the ridge, seeing the dark silhouettes of Ethan Cole and Tomas standing side by side against the bright morning sky, their rifle barrels smoking in the crisp air.

Marcus knew the attack had completely failed. If they stayed in the canyon another ten minutes, every man in his squad would be picked off one by one or trapped without horses in the baking desert sun.

"Pull back!" Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with humiliation and rage. "Fall back to the open plain! Get out of the draw!"

The remaining mercenaries didn't need to be told twice. They grabbed their wounded comrades, dragged them onto whatever horses were still standing, and broke into a chaotic, panicked retreat out through the narrow mouth of the canyon, leaving behind a thick cloud of swirling yellow dust and three discarded carbines.

A loud, triumphant cheer echoed down from the Apache marksmen along the high rocks.

Ethan lowered his hot shotgun, wiping a mixture of sweat and black powder soot from his eyes. He watched the retreating dust cloud speed away toward the western horizon until it disappeared completely into the heat shimmer of the desert plain.