Corvin stood by the fence rail for a long time, the empty tin ladle dangling from his fingers. The sun was beginning its long, red slide toward the western peaks.

“Well,” he muttered to the vast, indifferent landscape, “that’s the end of that.”

Corvin was mistaken.

Three days after the Apache woman vanished into the northern canyon, the quiet of Cold Springs was shattered by the sound of approaching shod iron.

It was mid-morning, and Corvin was under the lean-to shade of his barn, oiling a leather bridle, when his dun gelding let out a sharp, anxious whistle. This time, the horse stomped his hoof against the wooden floorboards, his ears pinned back hard.

Corvin laid the oil rag down smoothly. He didn't hurry, but his movements were devoid of wasted motion. He picked up his Winchester .44-40 rifle from the workbench, levered a round into the chamber with a crisp metallic clack, and stepped out into the blinding sunlight of the yard.

Five riders were turning through his western gate. They were not local ranchers or drifting cowhands looking for water. They moved with the practiced, predatory formation of men who lived by the gun and answered to no territorial law.

At their head rode Silo Brant.

Brant was a tall, lean man in his late forty’s, with a face like cured leather stretched over sharp bones. He wore a heavy wool coat despite the heat, its skirts pulled back behind the ivory grips of two low-slung Colt revolvers. He was a notorious land speculator, cattle thief, and leader of the notorious Black Ridge Syndicate—a group of ruthless investors buying up water rights along the border by any means necessary.

Behind him sat four heavy-set gunmen, their hats pulled low over hard, wind-burned eyes, lever-action carbines resting across their saddle horns.

Brant pulled his bay horse to a halt ten paces from the well. He looked around the small homestead with a slow, dismissive gaze, taking in the stone cabin, the small herd of longhorns, and the deep, dark mouth of the limestone sinkhole. His thin lips curled into a faint, unpleasant smile.

"Torne," Brant said, his voice dry as rattling leaves. "You're a hard man to find."

Corvin rested the stock of his Winchester against his hip, the muzzle pointed casually toward the dirt halfway between Brant's horse and his own boots. "I don't make a habit of being found by people I didn't invite, Brant. What do you want on my land?"

Brant leaned forward, resting both gloved hands over his saddle horn. "I came to offer you a second chance at a good trade. Three thousand dollars, cash money. For the deed to Cold Springs. You take your horses and your cattle, and you ride north to Prescott. A man with your cavalry background could live real comfortable in town."

Corvin didn't blink. "I told your land agent two months ago, and I'll tell you now: Cold Springs isn't for sale. Not for three thousand, and not for thirty thousand."

One of the gunmen behind Brant spit a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the dry grass, his hand shifting subtly toward his carbine. Corvin’s eyes flicked to the man, then back to Brant, his index finger resting light as a feather against the Winchester's trigger.

Brant’s eyes narrowed slightly, the false warmth leaving his expression. "You're a foolish man, Torne. This whole valley is changing. The railroad is coming through in two years. Small men with three hundred acres and a water hole don't stay in the way of progress. They get trampled."

"Then I guess I'll just have to be hard to trample," Corvin said quietly. "Now state your other business, Brant, or turn those horses around. You're fouling my yard."

Brant held Corvin's gaze for a long, heavy moment. He was calculating the distance, the angle of Corvin's rifle, and the cold, unyielding look in the former scout's gray eyes. Brant knew Corvin was a veteran of the Apache campaigns; he was not a greenhorn who could be panicked into dropping his weapon.

"We're looking for a fugitive," Brant said, shifting his tone smoothly. "An Apache woman. She escaped from a work gang near the silver mines south of the border four days ago. She stole a silver belt belonging to my partner, and she killed a guard on her way out."

Corvin’s face remained an unreadable slab of granite. "I haven't seen any work gangs."

"She was headed north," Brant pressed, his eyes scanning the dirt around the well. "She would have needed water. Nobody crosses this draw without stopping at Cold Springs."

"I don't keep track of everything that passes through the desert, Brant," Corvin said. "There's nothing for you here."

Brant looked down at the earth near the fence rail. His sharp eyes caught a small, dark speck on the gray wood—a dried fleck of blood left behind three days earlier. He smiled again, a cold, sharp twitch of his mouth.

"Is that so?" Brant murmured. He straightened in his saddle and gathered his leather reins. "Well. We'll be hunting around these ridges for a few days, Torne. If we find out you gave food or water to a red fugitive, the territorial marshal won't be able to help you. The Syndicate takes a very personal view of men who assist murderers."

Corvin didn't answer. He stayed motionless in the yard, holding his rifle at the ready as Brant and his four gunmen turned their horses around and trotted slowly back through the western gate.

As the dust from their hooves settled in the still afternoon air, Corvin lowered his rifle. He looked up at the jagged, red-rock crags of the northern canyons.