"Afternoon, friend," the leader called out, his voice smooth and greasy as axle grease. He did not touch his hat.
"Afternoon," Thomas said. He held his Springfield loosely across his forearms, the muzzle pointed at the ground, but his index finger was rested against the steel trigger guard.
"We're looking for an Apache girl," the leader said, glancing past Thomas toward the barn. "Escaped from a transport wagon down near Fort Selden three weeks back. Word in San Ysidro was that a local farmer bought her off old Silas Finch's block for a hundred dollars silver."
"Ain't one here that belongs to you," Thomas said.
The leader smiled, showing two rows of long, yellow teeth. "Now, we ain't here to trouble a honest settler, friend. We know how it goes. You get lonely out here in the dirt, you pay a few dollars for a piece of help. But she's government property, see? State fugitive. There's a bounty on her from Captain Rourke over at the post."
"I don't know any Captain Rourke," Thomas said, his voice flat. "And I don't care about your bounty."
"We ain't asking you to care," the leader said, his smile disappearing. "We're telling you how it is. We take the girl, we hand you fifty dollars out of the reward to cover your loss, and we leave you breathing. That's a fair trade for a man who spent his good coin on a wild Indian."
Thomas slowly raised the stock of the Springfield to his shoulder, resting his cheek against the cold walnut wood. The long black barrel settled directly on the center of the leader's grey coat.
"She's not a girl," Thomas said, his eyes narrowing to small, cold slits behind his sights. "And nobody takes her."
Behind the barn, Ayana stepped into the clear. She did not hide behind the timber wall. She walked straight out into the sunlight, the heavy Colt .44 held low at her side, her face completely empty of emotion.
The leader’s eyes shifted to her, then back to Thomas. He let out a short, barking laugh that ended in a spit of yellow tobacco onto the gravel.
"You really going to die for something you bought for a hundred dollars, old man?" he asked, his right hand creeping slowly down toward his hip. "You really going to throw your life into the dirt for an Indian?"
Thomas looked at Ayana out of the corner of his eye. She was standing twenty feet away, her feet firmly planted in the earth she had watered, her eyes fixed on the man to the leader's left.
Thomas looked back at the leader.
"No," Thomas said, his voice carrying clearly across the dry field, ringing against the red hills. "I'm willing to fight for someone you fools still think can be bought."
The leader's face hardened. The greasy smile vanished completely. "Kill him," he growled.
His hand lashed down toward his holster—
CRACK!
A rifle shot exploded through the valley.
It was not Thomas’s Springfield. It was not Ayana’s Colt. The sound was higher, sharper—the report of a Winchester lever-action firing from high up on the east ridge.
The leader’s man on the far right let out a sharp gasp, threw his arms into the air, and dropped off his horse like a sack of grain, his boot catching briefly in the stirrup before he hit the dirt.
"What the—!" the leader yelled, his horse rearing high into the air.
Before the remaining men could draw their weapons, the crest of the hill seemed to burst open.
More horses appeared against the bright afternoon sky. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
They came down the steep shale slope not in a loose line, but in a tight, thunderous formation, their horses’ hooves throwing up a cloud of dust that obscured the sun. They wore leather leggings, red cotton headbands, and carried short lever-action carbines.
Apache riders.
Ayana stopped breathing. Her hands began to shake around the heavy stock of the Colt.
At the front of the thunderous charge rode an older warrior mounted on a dark bay stallion. His face was weathered like cedar wood, marked by a deep, white scar that ran from his left eye down across his jawline.
Ayana whispered a single word—a word so small it was almost lost in the roar of the hooves:
"Takoda..."
Thomas stared at her, his rifle still held high. "You told me your family was gone," he said, his voice tight.
"I thought they were," she gasped, her eyes wide with unbelievable wonder. "The soldiers... they told us everyone at the river was dead!"
The riders swept into the field, encircling the four remaining gunmen before they could even turn their horses. Within three seconds, thirty Apache warriors had formed a tight ring around the yard, their carbines pointed directly at the hunters' chests.
The leader of the gunmen panicked. In a blind rage, he lunged sideways off his horse, grabbed Ayana around the neck from behind, and pulled his long-barreled cavalry pistol, pressing the cold steel muzzle hard against her ribs.
"Back off!" he screamed, his voice cracked with absolute terror, his eyes rolling in his head like a trapped eye. "Back off, or I'll blow her straight to hell! I swear to God I'll kill her!"
The yard went dead silent.
The Apache riders pulled up their horses, their rifles still raised. The scarred warrior at their head—Takoda—stared down at the gunman, his dark face completely unreadable, his finger resting lightly on his trigger. Nobody fired.
The leader pulled Ayana tightly against his chest, using her as a human shield, his eyes darting wildly between Takoda, the warriors, and Thomas.
"Here's the deal, farmer!" the gunman shouted, his breath raspy and terrified in Thomas’s ear. "You paid a hundred dollars for her! I heard you! You want your money back? I'll give you two hundred! Two hundred dollars gold! Just tell these devils to let me ride out of here!"
Silence swallowed the field.
The wind rustled through the green shoots in Ayana's garden.
Takoda looked at Thomas. The Apache warriors looked at Thomas. Ayana, her throat compressed by the gunman's heavy leather arm, turned her eyes toward Thomas.
For four weeks, she had wondered. In the quiet of the night, sitting on the cold porch while he slept inside, she had asked herself whether his kindness was merely a long game—whether he was waiting for the right moment to claim his prize, or whether, when the silver was high enough, he would sell her back to the world that had stolen her.
Now, the entire frontier seemed to pause, waiting for Thomas Hail to show what kind of man he truly was.
Thomas stood motionless in the center of the yard. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the butt of his Springfield rifle until it rested against the dirt beside his boot.
Ayana’s face went white. Her heart dropped into her stomach like a cold stone. "Thomas...?" she choked out.
The gunman let out a nervous, hysterical cackle. "That's it, farmer! That's a smart man! Two hundred gold! I got it in my saddlebag—"
Thomas didn't answer. He reached inside his worn denim coat with his left hand.