THE VALLEY OF STOLEN HORSES

 THE HERD IN THE FORBIDDEN VALLEY

Ethan Graves knew something was wrong the moment he saw the dust.

It rose beyond the western ridge in a long brown cloud, too wide to belong to a single wagon and too steady to be caused by the wind.

He reined in his horse.

The chestnut gelding beneath him, a powerful animal named Copper, lifted its head and stared toward the horizon.

Ethan narrowed his eyes.

He had been traveling alone for four days.

At thirty-two years old, he had learned that solitude asked fewer questions than people did.

That was why he preferred it.

No explanations.

No promises.

No one demanding to know why he slept with a revolver beneath his hand or why he sometimes woke before dawn with the sound of gunfire inside his head.

Copper shifted impatiently.

“I see it,” Ethan murmured.

The horse snorted.

Ethan had been riding toward San Marcos, where a rancher had supposedly offered him temporary work repairing fences and breaking horses.

He needed the money.

His last job had ended badly.

Not because Ethan had done anything wrong, but because the ranch owner had discovered Ethan’s past.

Once people heard the name Ethan Graves, some of them remembered another name.

Sergeant Graves.

The soldier who had walked away from Fort Mason seven years earlier after refusing an order he believed would lead innocent people to slaughter.

The Army called it insubordination.

Ethan called it the only decent thing he had done in uniform.

He had never been formally convicted.

There had been too many witnesses willing to say he had prevented unnecessary bloodshed.

But his career had ended.

Since then, Ethan had drifted from ranch to ranch.

He fixed fences.

He broke difficult horses.

He helped move cattle.

Then he left before anyone could ask him to stay.

But the dust beyond the western ridge bothered him.

He turned Copper away from the trail.

“Work can wait.”

The gelding carried him through a narrow passage between red sandstone cliffs.

The farther they traveled, the clearer the sound became.

Hoofbeats.

Hundreds of them.

Ethan dismounted near the top of a rocky slope.

He tied Copper beneath a juniper tree and crawled the last twenty yards on foot.

When he reached the ridge, he stopped breathing for a moment.

Below him was a hidden valley.

And inside it stood more horses than he could count at first glance.

Black horses.

Paints.

Bays.

Grays.

Palominos.

Mares with foals.

Strong riding horses.

Older pack animals.

At least two hundred.

Maybe more.

They had been trapped behind crude fences made from rope, timber, and stolen wagon wheels.

Several armed men guarded the valley.

Ethan counted.

Four near the herd.

Three beside a campfire.

Two sleeping beneath a canvas shelter.

Another man standing beside a black horse at the far end of the valley.

Ten.

Perhaps more hidden somewhere.

Ethan studied the horses.

Something bothered him.

Many carried woven Apache blankets.

Several had distinctive markings cut into leather bridles.

These were not ranch horses.

They belonged to a tribe.

Ethan felt his stomach tighten.

He watched two men drag a gray mare toward a smaller enclosure.

The mare resisted.

One thief struck her across the face with a rope.

Ethan’s hand closed around the rock beneath him.

“Easy,” he whispered to himself.

Anger got men killed.

He had learned that years ago.

Below, a tall man with a black beard shouted.

“Leave that mare alone!”

The thief stopped.

The bearded man walked closer.

“Buyer wants them alive.”

The thief shrugged.

“She won’t move.”

“Then make her move without ruining her.”

The bearded man looked toward the herd.

“Two days from now, half these animals will belong to ranchers in Mexico. The rest go east.”

Another man laughed.

“And the Apaches?”

“Let them walk.”

The men laughed.

Ethan did not.

He slowly backed away from the ridge.

At Copper, he checked his ammunition.

One rifle.

One revolver.

Not enough to fight ten men and protect two hundred frightened horses.

He needed help.

The question was where to find it.

As if in answer, he noticed a mark scratched into the bark of the juniper tree.

Three short lines.

One long.

Then three short again.

A signal.

He recognized it.

Not Army.

Apache.

Ethan looked around.

Nothing moved.

Then a voice behind him said:

“Do not touch your gun.”

Ethan froze.

The voice belonged to a woman.

Calm.

Low.

Close.

He raised his hands slowly.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Turn around.”

He did.

There were five Apache women standing among the rocks.

Each carried a rifle or bow.

The one in front looked to be around thirty.

She wore her dark hair braided over one shoulder. A faded red scarf covered her neck. Her expression revealed nothing.

“You were watching the valley,” she said.

“Yes.”

“The horses are ours.”

“I guessed.”

Her eyes hardened.

“Men like you usually guess many things about us.”

Ethan said nothing.

She stepped closer.

“My name is Nita.”

“Ethan Graves.”

Something flickered in her expression.

“You were a soldier.”

“Once.”

Nita raised her rifle slightly.

“That is not an answer I enjoy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be.”

The other women watched him.

Ethan pointed toward the ridge.

“There are at least ten men down there.”

“We know.”

“More could be hidden near the eastern rocks.”

“We know that too.”

“Then you’ve been watching them.”

“For three days.”

Ethan frowned.

“Why haven’t you attacked?”

Nita’s jaw tightened.

“Because those men have our children’s winter horses. If fighting begins inside that valley, the herd may panic. Horses will die.”

Ethan understood immediately.

The thieves had chosen the location carefully.

Anyone trying to rescue the animals risked causing a stampede.

“How many people in your camp?” Ethan asked.

Nita did not answer.

He nodded.

“Fair enough.”

“You should leave.”

Ethan looked back toward the ridge.

“I probably should.”