THE STRANGER AYANA CHOSE

The Man Nobody Expected

The spring of 1873 softened the Arizona Territory for only a few precious weeks.

For a short time, the land seemed to forget its cruelty.

Wildflowers pushed through cracks between red stones. Cottonwoods brightened the canyon floors with fresh green leaves, and the wind carried the cool scent of water from the narrow river that wound through the valley.

But everyone knew summer was coming.

Soon the flowers would disappear.

The river would shrink.

The grass would turn yellow.

And the red earth would once again become hot enough to burn a man's boots through the soles.

Hidden beyond a series of narrow canyons stood an Apache village led by Chief Whitehawk.

The village had been built beside the river, where cottonwoods provided shade and the earth remained fertile enough for corn, beans, squash, and small gardens.

That spring, something unusual had brought people from distant camps.

Ayana, the chief's only daughter, had reached the age when she would choose a husband.

The decision belonged entirely to her.

Chief Whitehawk had made that clear.

No warrior could claim Ayana because he was strong.

No family could demand her because of blood.

No man could win her by offering horses, weapons, or gifts.

She would choose.

And everyone who had heard the news understood what that meant.

More than a hundred people gathered beneath the cottonwoods.

Warriors arrived from distant camps.

Hunters known for their courage came with decorated horses.

Young men wore their finest clothing and beadwork.

Some carried bows polished until the wood shone.

Others wore feathers, painted designs, or necklaces made from shells and bone.

They had prepared for weeks.

Each believed he had something worthy of Ayana.

One young warrior named Red Hawk had killed a mountain lion alone.

Another, Little Bear, had rescued two children during a flash flood.

A third had traveled for four days simply to bring Ayana a white horse.

There were men with powerful families.

Men with reputations.

Men who had spent years proving themselves.

And then there was the stranger.

Nobody knew who he was.

He arrived just before noon.

He came riding a tired bay horse along the southern trail.

His clothes were dusty.

His boots were cracked.

A worn blanket was tied behind his saddle.

A rifle rested across his back.

There was no decoration on him.

No fine beadwork.

No expensive weapon.

No group of warriors following him.

He looked like a man who had been riding too long and sleeping too little.

The stranger stopped at the edge of the village.

Several warriors immediately watched him.

One stepped forward.

"Who are you?"

The stranger dismounted.

"My name is Ethan Walker."

"Where is your camp?"

"I don't have one."

The warrior frowned.

"You came alone?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Ethan looked toward the river.

"I heard there was water."

A few men laughed.

Nobody understood him.

Then Chief Whitehawk approached.

He was a tall man with silver beginning to appear in his dark hair. Age had not weakened him. It had simply made him quieter.