Thirty miles north, in a hidden canyon, another fire burned.
Men sat around it.
They were Apache warriors.
Their weapons lay beside them.
Their horses stood in the shadows.
At the center of the gathering sat an old man with silver hair.
His name was Nantan Biche.
And across from him sat the woman Corvin had given water to.
She had cleaned the blood from her face.
Her breathing was steady.
Her eyes were clear.
"My name is Tazhaa," she told her father.
She described Devil's Wash.
She described the forty men.
She described the wagons.
The dynamite.
The oil.
The rifles.
And Harlan Vance.
Vance had planned to destroy Cold Springs.
He knew Corvin's well was the key to the valley.
As long as Corvin remained independent, other ranchers had access to water.
As long as they had access to water, Vance could not force them to sell.
So Vance had devised something worse than theft.
He intended to manufacture a war.
He would murder Corvin.
Burn his ranch.
Poison the spring.
Then blame Apache warriors.
The army would respond.
Apache villages would be attacked.
Ranchers would flee.
And Vance would acquire the land and water afterward.
Tazhaa had discovered the plan.
She had been wounded while spying on Vance's camp.
Her horse had been killed.
She had fallen from a cliff.
Then she had walked for twelve hours without water.
Until she reached Corvin's fence.
She had expected a bullet.
Instead, she received water.
That difference mattered.
Her father listened silently.
When she finished, Nantan Biche looked toward the surrounding darkness.
"Call the warriors," he ordered.
Before dawn, three hundred men began moving toward Cold Springs.
Three Hundred Shadows
Corvin woke before sunrise.
He did not know why.
Years of military experience had trained his body to recognize danger before his mind could name it.
He lay still.
Something was wrong.
There were no birds.
No insects.
No normal sounds from the corral.
He reached for his trousers.
Then his gun belt.
He picked up his Winchester and moved toward the window.
His horses stood rigidly together.
All four were staring toward the eastern ridge.
Corvin looked.
A rider stood against the dawn.
Then another appeared.
Then five.
Then ten.
The ridge began filling with mounted figures.
Corvin crossed to the western side.
More riders.
North.
South.
West.
Every high point around his ranch had been occupied.
His stomach tightened.
Three hundred warriors.
He had seen large military formations before.
But this was different.
There was no shouting.
No charge.
No war cry.
No gunfire.
The warriors simply watched.
Corvin understood.
They had not come to raid.
They had come to judge.
He loaded his Winchester.
Then he walked onto the porch.
If he was going to die, he would not die hiding behind a wall.
For several minutes, nothing happened.
Then the riders on the eastern ridge separated.
An old man descended.
He rode a white horse.
His hair was silver.
His face was scarred.
He wore no war paint.
Yet every warrior lowered his head as the old man passed.
Corvin recognized authority when he saw it.
The old chief stopped fifty feet away.
He stared at Corvin.
Corvin stared back.
Neither man spoke.
Then the chief raised one hand.
The northern warriors separated.
A path opened.
One rider entered it.
Corvin's heart stopped for half a second.
It was the woman from yesterday.
Tazhaa.
She was riding a black stallion.
Her hair had been braided.
Her turquoise necklace shone beneath the morning sun.
Her wound had been treated.
She looked strong.
Almost regal.
Two warriors followed her.
Between them they carried a large buffalo-hide bundle.