He pointed toward the narrow mouth of his basin, where the red sandstone walls pinched down to a thirty-foot gap.

"Let them enter the basin," Corvin said, his gray eyes flashing with cold, tactical brilliance. "Let them ride all the way to my front yard. Once they are inside the walls, your father can close the trap behind them."

Nalin studied his face for a long moment, a slow, dangerous smile touching her lips. "You think like a hawk, brother."

"I think like a man who spent nineteen years learning every rock and arroyo in this dirt," Corvin corrected her.

He pulled his Winchester from his shoulder, cycled a heavy cartridge into the chamber with a sharp, metallic clack, and walked toward the center of the yard to meet his past.

The twenty-five riders pulled up in a tight, dust-covered semi-circle twenty yards from Corvin's front porch.

The heat in the open yard was suffocating, thick with the smell of horse sweat, hot leather, and gun oil.

At the front of the troop sat Colonel Silas Vance. He was a large, thick-necked man in his late fifties, with a heavy gray mustache, small, watery blue eyes, and a face flushed red from whiskey and sun. He wore a crisp, tailored military coat decorated with brass buttons, and a polished silver star—a custom veteran's badge—was pinned prominently over his left breast pocket.

Beside him rode a lean, hawk-faced man with a scarred neck named Miller, who served as Vance’s chief enforcer.

Corvin stood alone in the center of the yard, leaning casually against the dry timber frame of his water well. His Winchester rifle rested loosely in the crook of his right arm; his thumb sat lightly on the hammer.

Vance reined his white stallion to a halt, looking down at Corin with supreme, aristocratic contempt.

"You the owner of this squalid patch of dirt?" Vance demanded, his voice gravelly and loud.

"I am," Corvin said quietly. "Corvin Torne."

Vance adjusted his leather gloves. "My men traced an injured Apache female to your western fence line two hours ago. We know you gave her water. Where is she?"

"She left," Corvin replied truthfully. "Rode north hours ago."

Miller, the hawk-faced enforcer, spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dirt near Corvin's boots. "He's lying, Colonel. The blood trail leads straight into his barn."

Vance’s blue eyes narrowed into mean slits. "Helping hostile natives is a federal crime in this territory, Mr. Torne. It makes you an accomplice to treason against the United States government."

"Is that right?" Corvin asked, taking a slow step forward. "And what does burning down a peaceful camp of women and children in a canyon make you, Colonel?"

The silence that hit the yard was instantaneous and absolute.

Vance’s face drained of its ruddy color, turning a sickly, mottled gray. His hand instinctively twitched toward the pearl-handled revolver on his hip. "What did you say?"

"Nineteen years ago," Corvin said, his voice ringing across the open yard like a iron hammer hitting an anvil. "The Gila Canyon. You were looking for gold. You found none, so you ordered your men to burn the lodges and kill every soul so no one could talk."

Vance stared at Corin, his small eyes widening in sudden, terrifying realization as he looked at Corvin's face, his broad shoulders, and the cold, unyielding gray eyes staring back at him.

"The boy..." Vance whispered, his voice cracking with shock. "The Torne scout... he didn't leave you in the woods. He kept you."

"Abram Torne raised me," Corvin said, his voice dropping into an icy register. "And today, Colonel, the debt comes due."

Vance’s terror lasted for only a fraction of a second before his ruthless instincts took over. "Kill him!" he screamed, ripping his revolver from its holster. "Kill him now!"

Before Miller or the other riders could raise their rifles, Corvin threw himself flat into the dirt behind the heavy stone curb of the well.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

A volley of twenty rifles erupted simultaneously, bullets tearing through the air where Corvin had been standing a second before, shattering the wooden bucket and sending splinters flying like shrapnel.

Corvin rolled onto his back beneath the cover of the stone circle, levered his Winchester, spun around the edge of the rocks, and fired three rapid shots into the thick dust.

Two of Vance’s gunmen tumbled from their saddles, screaming as they hit the baking dirt.

"Circle the house!" Miller shouted, kicking his horse forward. "Flank him!"

Before the gunmen could spread out across the yard, a high, piercing war cry echoed from the surrounding sandstone cliffs.

AY-LA-LA-LA-LA!

From every rock, every arroyo, and every mesquite thicket surrounding the basin, three hundred Apache warriors rose as one. A rain of iron-tipped arrows and rifle fire descended upon Vance’s men from three sides, trapping them in a deadly crossfire in the center of the open yard.

Panic erupted instantly among the cattle baron's mercenaries. Horses reared and plunged, throwing riders into the dirt as Apache warriors charged down the steep slopes with lances and repeating rifles.

Corvin ignored the chaotic battle raging around him. His eyes were locked on a single target.

Colonel Silas Vance was desperately trying to turn his white stallion toward the narrow southern pass, his face twisted in raw panic as his men fell around him.

Corvin stood up from behind the well, racked a fresh shell into his Winchester, brought the brass front sight up to his eye, and pulled the trigger.

The heavy lead bullet struck the white stallion's shoulder, sending the horse crashing into the red dirt. Vance was thrown violently over the animal's head, tumbling through the dust until he slammed against the pine base of Corvin's barn.

The battle for the basin was over in less than ten minutes.