Savage attack on innocent freighters. Cal finished. And the army gets the excuse they need to clear the canyon. Naelli's face hardened. Gojo prepares a war party.
He says he will burn the wagon. We have to stop him, Cal said. Or we have to get there first. He stepped closer again. The wind whipped her hair across her face.
He reached up without thinking and brushed the strands away from her eyes. His fingers grazed her cheek. His skin was rough, calloused from rope and wire, but his touch was terrified in its gentleness. Nielli went still. She did not flinch this time.
She leaned into his hand just a fraction of an inch. The heat of his palm against her cold skin was a shock that went straight to her marrow. Cal stared at her. The air between them thickened, heavier than the dust. He wanted to pull her into him.
He wanted to wrap his coat around her and shield her from the wind and the husband and the agent and the inevitable end of things. He leaned in, his breath hitching. The sound of a horseshoe striking stone echoed down the canyon. Cal spun, his gun clearing a leather in a blur of motion. Naelli dropped to a crouch, her hand finding the knife at her belt.
A coyote trotted out from behind a boulder, looked at them with yellow, indifferent eyes, and vanished into the brush. Cal let out a long shaky breath. He holstered the gun, but the moment was gone, shattered by the reality of where they were. "Go," he said, his voice flat. "Tell the elders to wait.
Tell them I will bring them the wagon myself." Niily mounted her horse. She looked down at him. "Do not die." "Kalhart," she said.
"I am trying not to," he said. The tragedy did not wait for the wagon. It arrived the next morning carried on the back of a mule. A group of prospectors riding into San Salano found the body in a ravine near the broken spurs fence line. It was a young Apache scout, a boy of 16 named Chaitton.
He had been a gentle spirit known for carving wooden flutes and playing them when the camp was quiet. He had been shot three times and he had been scalped. The prospectors brought the body into town, draped over the mule like a sack of grain. By noon, the story had twisted. The men in the saloon were saying the boy had been caught trying to rape a settler's daughter.
They said he had been cutting fences. They said he got what he deserved. But in the Apache camp, the grief was a physical blow. Chaitton's mother wailed, cutting her hair and gashing her arms in mourning. The sound echoed off the canyon walls, a raw, jagged scream that demanded blood.
Go stood over the body. He did not weep. He looked at the boy's wounds. Then he looked at Naelli. This is your friend's work.
Gojo said. His voice was a quiet rumble. Like thunder miles away. He did not do this. Naelli said she felt sick.
She had known Chaitton. He had smiled at her when she rode out to meet Cal. He was found on the rancher's land. Gojo said, "The white men kill us for sport. And you, you spread your legs for the butcher."
He backhanded her. It was a fast, brutal blow that knocked her into the dirt. Naelli tasted copper. She did not cry out. She pushed herself up, wiping the blood from her lip.
"You use his death to hurt me," she said, spitting the blood onto the ground. "You are small, Gojo. Small and afraid." Gojo stepped toward her. His hand raised again, but the wailing of the mother stopped him.
He lowered his hand. Tonight, he said, "Tonight we ride, and when we return, you will see whose blood is redder." Cal heard the news from Luis when he rode back to the ranch. The old Vakerero was waiting by the gate, a shotgun across his arm. "They are saying your boys killed an Indian kid."
Luis said, "The town is ready to riot." "I have no boys left," Cal said, dismounting. "Just you and the drift tires. Did they do it?" Luis shook his head.
They were fixing the windmill all day. This is Reed's work. He kills a pond to take the queen. Cal cursed, slamming his hat against his leg. He walked to the water trough and splashed his face.
The water was warm and tasted of algae. We have to go to town. Cal said town? Luis looked at him like he was mad. Patron, if you go to San Salano today, they will string you up.
They are calling you a traitor. They say you are arming the hostiles. If I hide here, I admit guilt. Cal said saddled the fresh horses. They rode into San Salano.
An hour later, the main street was crowded. Men stood in knots on the boardwalks, their voices loud and angry. When they saw Cal, the noise died down, replaced by a sullen, dangerous silence. Cal rode straight down the middle of the street. He kept his eyes forward, his back straight.
He could feel the hate radiating from the buildings. It was a tangible pressure, like walking underwater. A tomato flew from an alleyway, splattering against his horse's flank. Cal did not turn. He reached the sheriff's office and dismounted.
Sheriff Miller was standing on the porch, looking unhappy. You shouldn't be here, Cal. Miller said, "I want to see the body." Cal said, "It's gone. The kin came and took it."
Cal looked at the sheriff. Who shot him? Miller. Miller shifted his weight. Folks say it was your hands.
Folks say the earth is flat. Cal said, "My hands were fixing a pump. This was murder. Miller, to start a war, and you know it. I know the town is scared."
Miller shouted, his composure cracking. "They see you giving horses to the enemy. They see you meeting that squ in the hills. They think you've turned against your own kind." My kind don't shoot 16-year-old boys," Cal said quietly.
A commotion erupted at the end of the street. A shout, then the sound of breaking glass. Cal turned. A small wagon had been cornered near the livery stable. It was an Apache family, an old man, a woman, and two small children.
They had likely been trading baskets before the mood turned. Now a mob of 20 men had them surrounded. Get the rope," someone yelled. "String them up. Retribution!"
Cal didn't think. He didn't weigh the odds. He vaulted onto his horse and spurred it hard. The ran lipped forward, scattering the men on the edge of the crowd. Cal drove the horse straight into the center of the mob.
Placing himself between the terrified family and the settlers. "Back off!" Cal roared. He pulled his revolver, pointing it at the sky. The mob surged back, startled.
Then they recognized him. "It's the Indian lover," a man in a blacksmith's apron shouted. Cal's horse danced nervously. "Go!" Cal yelled to the Apache man.
"Get out of here!" The family whipped their mule, the wagon clattering away toward the open desert. The mob turned its attention to Cal. "You choose them over us?" a man screamed.
A rock struck Cal in the shoulder. Then another hit his horse. The ran reared, terrified. Cal lost his seat, crashing into the dust. Before he could rise, they were on him.
It was a blur of boots and fists. Cal curled into a ball, protecting his head. He felt a rib crack. He tasted dust and blood. The anger of the town was pouring into him.
Every kick of punishment for his perceived betrayal. Enough. The boom of a shotgun silenced the street. Luis stood on the boardwalk. The double-barreled weapon leveled at the crowd.
The next man who kicks him dies. Luis said his voice was calm, conversational even. The mob hesitated. The bloodlust cooled as the reality of the shotgun sank in. They stepped back, leaving Cal lying in the dirt.
Cal groaned and rolled onto his back. The sky was spinning. He spat a mouthful of blood. He looked at the faces of his neighbors. He saw fear.