The thought unsettled him.
He turned away and went outside to tend to the cattle.
For the next several hours, he tried to concentrate on his work.
He repaired the fence, moved a sick calf into the shade, and checked the water troughs. Yet every few minutes his thoughts returned to the woman lying in his house.
There was something strange about the way she had reacted to his name.
He told himself that it meant nothing.
By late afternoon, he had almost convinced himself.
Then he saw the riders.
They appeared on the southern ridge just as the sun began to sink behind the mountains.
At first, Corvin counted six.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
He stopped beside the corral, one hand resting on the wooden fence.
The riders kept coming.
They emerged from the hills in long lines, their horses moving through the dust with an almost unnatural silence. Some carried rifles. Others held bows. Several wore blankets decorated with intricate patterns, and many had feathers tied into their dark hair.
Corvin watched as the line stretched across the valley.
Fifty riders.
One hundred.
Two hundred.
By the time the last group appeared, he had lost count.
There were nearly three hundred of them.
He had seen Apache warriors before, but never anything like this.
They did not charge.
They did not shout.
They simply approached the ranch and stopped in a wide semicircle around the house.
Corvin's mouth went dry.
He turned toward the door and reached for the rifle hanging beside it.
Before he could lift the weapon, a voice called from the riders.
"Corvin Torne!"
The voice was deep, carrying across the valley.
"Come outside."
Corvin stepped onto the porch.
A tall Apache man rode forward from the center of the gathering. His hair was streaked with gray, and his face bore the deep lines of someone who had spent a lifetime beneath the sun.
He wore a dark blanket over his shoulders and carried no visible weapon.
His horse stopped several yards from the porch.
The man looked at Corvin.