Caleb didn't answer with words. He rose, stepped to the side of the window frame, aimed at the flash of light near the mesquite brush, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
A scream of agony cut through the night, followed by the heavy thump of a body falling into the sand.
"Cover the back!" Thorne screamed from the darkness. "Fire the roof!"
Flaming arrows—wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags—floated through the dark sky, landing on the sod and stone roof of the cabin. The dirt layer kept the flames from catching immediately, but the heat began to fill the room with thick, suffocating smoke.
For twenty minutes, the cabin was an inferno of lead and iron.
Caleb fired methodically, moving from window to window, his Winchester barking like a hungry dog. Nazhoni proved her courage; when a gunman tried to kick open the rear door, she didn't hesitate. She pulled both triggers of the shotgun through the wooden panels, blasting the attacker backward into the darkness.
"They’re coming from the south ridge!" Nazhoni shouted through the smoke, pointing toward the high rocks behind the corral.
Caleb saw them—three men moving low under the shadow of the boulders, carrying wooden crates of dynamite stolen from the copper mines. If they threw those sticks against the stone walls, the entire cabin would collapse like a house of cards.
"Cover me!" Caleb roared.
Before Nazhoni could protest, Caleb kicked open the front door and dove onto the dusty porch, rolling low into the shadow of the well-house.
Bullets ripped through the dirt around him, spitting sparks off the stones. Caleb leveled his Winchester, taking aim at the man holding the glowing fuse of a dynamite stick.
BANG.
The bullet struck the dynamite stick directly in the man's hand.
BOOOOOOM!
A blinding flash of orange fire tore through the night sky. The concussive roar shook the earth, sending a wall of dirt, rock, and debris flying through the canyon. The blast killed two of the attackers instantly and threw Thorne off his feet, sending his gun flying into the darkness.
Silence fell over Red Mountain—heavy, thick, and absolute.
The smoke cleared slowly under the pale light of the rising moon.
Caleb stepped out from behind the well-house, his Winchester held at his hip, his coat scorched by embers.
In the center of the clearing lay Silas Thorne.
His clothes were torn, his face covered in black powder and blood, his right leg crushed beneath a fallen boulder. He was gasping for air, clutching his shattered leg, his eyes wide with frantic, pathetic terror as Caleb approached.
The remaining gunmen had fled into the desert, leaving their leader behind.
Caleb stopped three feet from Thorne, raising the rifle barrel until it was centered on the outlaw’s chest.
"Please..." Thorne rasped, blood bubbling on his cracked lips. "Don't shoot... Vance... I was just following orders... The land company... they paid me ten thousand dollars..."
Caleb’s finger rested on the cold trigger.
In his mind, he saw his burnt homestead in Texas. He saw the bodies of innocent men killed for greed. He saw the blood on Nazhoni’s dress. It would be so easy to squeeze the trigger, to let the iron speak one last time and end Thorne’s miserable life right here in the dirt.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Nazhoni stepped out of the burning doorway of the cabin. She was covered in soot, her black hair flying wildly in the wind, holding the empty shotgun at her side.
She walked past Caleb and stood beside him, looking down at the dying outlaw.
Thorne looked at her, his eyes full of desperate, sniveling plead. "Tell him... tell him to spare me, widow! I'll give you the land! I'll tell the judge everything! Just don't let him kill me!"
Caleb looked sideways at Nazhoni. "Say the word, Nazhoni. You owe this man nothing. It’s your justice."
Nazhoni looked at Thorne for a long, heavy moment. She saw the powerful, cruel man who had hunted her like an animal reduced to a broken creature crying in the dirt.
Slowly, she reached out and placed her slender, warm hand on the hot steel barrel of Caleb’s rifle.
She gently pushed the barrel down toward the ground.
"No, Caleb," Nazhoni said, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet, unshakeable dignity. "If we kill him like a dog in the dirt, we become the men who murdered my husband. We take his deed to the federal marshal in Tucson. We let the law lock him in a cage where he belongs."
Caleb looked into her hazel-flecked eyes. He saw no weakness—only a profound, beautiful strength that transcended the violence of the frontier.
Slowly, Caleb lowered the hammer of his rifle.
"You heard the lady, Thorne," Caleb said quietly. "Get up. You've got a long ride to Tucson."
Two months later, winter had arrived in the high desert.