Others carried bows and spears.
Every horse stood perfectly still.
Corvin had one rifle.
One revolver.
And a ranch that offered no meaningful protection.
He could shoot one man.
Perhaps two.
Then he would die.
He slowly lowered his rifle.
The warriors did not move.
That frightened him more than an attack would have.
If they had wanted him dead, he would already be dead.
They were waiting.
A lone rider separated from the northern ridge.
An elderly man rode toward the ranch.
His hair was streaked with silver.
His face was marked by years of sun and wind.
He stopped several yards away.
Corvin kept his hands visible.
“I don't want trouble.”
The old man looked at him.
Then raised one hand.
Every warrior on every ridge became still.
The elder pointed toward the well.
Corvin followed his gesture.
Then a path opened among the riders.
A horse entered.
Its rider was the woman from yesterday.
Her shoulder was bandaged.
She sat upright.
The warriors lowered their weapons as she passed.
Some bowed their heads.
Corvin stared.
The woman stopped beside the well.
Her eyes met his.
The old man spoke.
“You gave her water.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Corvin looked at the woman.
“Because she needed it.”
“You knew she was Apache.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she could be your enemy.”
Corvin nodded.
“She could have been anyone.”
The elder's eyes narrowed.
“That is not what I asked.”
Corvin swallowed.
“If someone is dying of thirst, you give them water.”
Silence.
The elder studied him for a long time.
Then he dismounted.
The woman followed.
They walked toward the well.
The elder placed one hand on its stone edge.
“You understand what this place is?”
“A well.”
“No.”
The elder looked toward the mountains.
“This well has a history.”
Corvin felt a strange chill.
“My father built it.”
The elder shook his head.
“Your father repaired it.”
Corvin stared.
The elder continued.
“Long before Abram Torne came here, our people used this water.”
Corvin looked at the stones.
He had never known.
His father had never told him.
“Why are you here?”
The elder's expression changed.
“We came because of her.”
He nodded toward the woman.
“She is not merely a traveler.”
Corvin looked at her again.
The elder spoke one word.
“Lena.”
The woman's face remained calm.
Corvin repeated the name silently.
Lena.
The elder continued.
“She is the daughter of our chief.”
Corvin's stomach dropped.
“And you brought three hundred people because I gave her water?”
“We brought three hundred because someone tried to kill her.”
Corvin looked toward the mountains.
“Who?”
The elder did not answer.
Instead, Lena stepped forward.
She looked at Corvin's left hand.
The scar.
Then she reached into a small pouch around her neck.
She pulled out a piece of metal.
Corvin stared at it.
His breath caught.
It was an old brass button.
A military button.
The same kind worn by the men who had attacked the canyon nineteen years ago.
Corvin took a step backward.
“Where did you get that?”
Lena looked at him.
The elder answered.
“We found it beside the place where your father died.”
The world seemed to tilt.
Corvin's father had not died in an accident.
That was what he had been told.
At least, that was what Abram had told him.
A hunting accident.
A horse had thrown him.
A terrible fall.
Corvin had been nineteen.
He had believed it because he needed to.
The elder reached inside his coat.
He removed a folded piece of cloth.
Inside was a weathered photograph.