"Pull back!" Tomas signaled to his marksmen. "Fall back to the stone wall around the spring!"
The retreat from the high ridge to the inner valley was a desperate race through a corridor of fire and falling stone.
Ethan, Tomas, and the six Apache warriors scrambled down the steep, shale-covered inner slope of the canyon just as another pair of cannon shells exploded against the rock face above them, showering the trail in debris.
They reached the floor of the valley and made their final stand behind a low, semi-circular fieldstone wall that the Apache families had built years earlier to protect the mouth of the natural spring from shifting sands.
The inner draw was now a scene of chaotic destruction. Several cottonwood trees had been split in half by cannon fire, their green branches resting in the clear water of the stream. Smoke hung heavy between the trees, smelling of sulfur and burnt wood.
Ethan knelt behind the stone wall, resting his double-barrel shotgun across the top ledge. His shirt was torn, his face covered in dark soot, his hands shaking slightly from exhaustion and the relentless shockwaves of the artillery.
Beside him, Tomas laid out his remaining Springfield cartridges on a flat stone, his face calm, sharp, and resolute.
"This is as far as we go, Ethan," Tomas said softly, looking over at the young rancher. "Beyond this wall is the water and the cave where the children are hidden."
Ethan looked at the crystal-clear water bubbling up from the limestone deep beneath his boots. He reached down, scooped up a handful of cold spring water, and washed the blood and soot from his eyes.
"Then we hold the wall," Ethan said.
Out at the canyon entrance, the artillery fire suddenly stopped.
The sudden silence that fell over the valley was almost more terrifying than the thunder of the cannons.
Then came the sound of approaching boots—dozens of heavy leather boots crunching through the gravel and snapped branches of the canyon floor.
The company mercenaries swept into the inner valley.
There were nearly thirty of them, spread out in a wide skirmish line through the cottonwood grove. At their center walked Marcus Vance, holding a double-action revolver in his left hand and a lever-action carbine in his right, his eyes scanning the smoke-filled trees.
Behind them, walking slowly through the tall grass with a silver-topped walking stick, came Vance Hargrove himself. He had come into the canyon to witness the final destruction of the settlement with his own eyes.
"Find them!" Hargrove commanded, his voice cold and dry. "Clear the spring! Burn everything!"
As the lead mercenaries stepped into the clearing twenty yards from the stone wall, Ethan stood up behind his breastwork.
BOOM!
He fired his shotgun point-blank into the center of the advancing line.
The heavy buckshot blasted through the smoke, knocking three mercenaries off their feet and sending the rest diving behind cottonwood trunks and boulders for cover.
"Behind the wall!" Marcus Vance screamed, leveling his carbine. "Kill them!"
A massive, intense firefight erupted across the narrow twenty-yard clearing around the spring.
Bullets slammed into the stone wall with sickening metallic thuds, chipping off limestone splinters that whistled through the air. Ethan and Tomas worked as a seamless team—when Ethan ducked down to reload his double-barrel shotgun, Tomas stood up to fire his Springfield, keeping up a continuous, brutal rhythm of defensive fire.
An Apache marksman to Ethan's left was struck in the shoulder by a rifle bullet, tumbling backward into the shallow water of the spring. Ethan reached over under heavy fire, grabbed the wounded man by his collar, and dragged him safely behind the stone wall.
"They're running low on ammunition!" Marcus Vance roared, noticing the slowing rate of fire from behind the wall. "Charge them! Take the wall!"
Ten mercenaries broke cover simultaneously, rushing across the open grass toward the stone wall with pistols drawn.
This was the critical moment. If the wall was breached, the defenders would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
Tomas stood fully upright on top of the stone wall, completely ignoring the bullets whistling past his head. He pulled a heavy forged iron war club from his belt, raised it high above his head, and let out a deep, booming war cry that echoed off the canyon walls like thunder.
Two Apache warriors leaped over the wall beside him, engaging the charging mercenaries in furious hand-to-hand combat right at the edge of the water.
Ethan dropped his empty shotgun, drew his Colt .44 revolver from his hip, and stepped up onto the wall beside Tomas.
He fired three quick shots into the charging men, dropping the two lead mercenaries into the mud. A third man leaped onto the wall, swinging his rifle butt toward Ethan's head. Ethan ducked beneath the blow, slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, and threw him violently over the wall into the rocks below.
The fighting around the stone wall turned into a brutal, bloody melee.
Ethan fought with everything he had left—using his empty revolver as a club, kicking, punching, and throwing himself into the line to protect the spring. Beside him, Tomas swung his iron war club with devastating power, fending off three attackers at once.
Despite their heroic effort, the sheer weight of numbers began to tell. Ethan received a deep grazing bullet wound to his left forearm, and Tomas was knocked to his knees by a heavy blow from a rifle butt.
Marcus Vance stepped over the stone wall, a bloody grin across his face, his silver revolver raised straight at Ethan's chest from five feet away.
"Game's over, Cole," Marcus spat, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Ethan looked straight into the barrel of the gun, his body exhausted, his weapons empty.
Before Marcus could pull the trigger, a sharp, metallic click-clack echoed from the slope directly behind the stone wall.
A deep, clear voice boomed through the trees: