Caleb stood so fast the chair fell backward.
He grabbed the shotgun from beside the door and stepped onto the porch.
Nothing.
Then the horizon moved.
Dust rose beyond the southern ridge.
A broad cloud.
Too wide for cattle.
Caleb climbed onto the porch rail.
Shapes appeared beneath the dust.
Horsemen.
Rows of them.
Dozens.
Then more.
Caleb stopped breathing.
The first line crested the ridge.
Another followed.
Then another.
Rifles caught the sunrise.
The entire desert seemed to be riding toward his house.
Caleb stepped backward.
“Elena.”
No answer.
“Elena!”
He entered the cabin.
She was already awake.
Barely.
She had pulled herself upright against the wall and was staring through the open doorway.
The sound of hooves strengthened.
Caleb pointed outside.
“I assume those are yours.”
Elena’s face had gone pale for a reason unrelated to blood loss.
“Help me stand.”
“No.”
“Caleb.”
“You can barely sit.”
“Help me.”
He looked toward the riders.
Then back at her.
“Elena, there are at least a hundred armed men coming directly toward my porch.”
“More.”
“That does not improve anything.”
“Help me stand.”
Caleb moved beside her.
She gripped his shoulder.
He helped her rise.
Her knees trembled.
“Who are they?”
“My family.”
“All of them?”
“No.”
Caleb stared.
“That was a joke?”
“No.”
More riders appeared.
Caleb counted until counting became pointless.
Perhaps one hundred and fifty.
Perhaps two hundred.
Some were clearly younger.
Some older.
Almost every adult man carried a rifle.
Several women rode among them too.
This was not a raiding party in the theatrical stories newspapers printed.
It looked more organized.
More serious.
That frightened Caleb differently.
“Why are they here?”
Elena leaned against the doorway.
“Looking for me.”
“You disappeared one day and two hundred people came searching?”
She looked at him.
“I was carrying something.”
“The papers.”
“Yes.”
Caleb glanced toward the saddlebags.
“What?”
Elena did not answer.
The lead riders were less than a quarter mile away.
Caleb raised the shotgun.
Elena grabbed the barrel with her good hand.
“Don’t.”
“They don’t know me.”
“They see me.”
“You’re standing behind me.”
“Move.”
“Elena.”
“Move.”
Caleb lowered the weapon slightly.
She stepped forward.
The sun struck her face.
One rider near the front suddenly raised an arm.
The entire line slowed.
Then stopped.
Caleb stared.
Nearly two hundred horses stood beyond his fence.
Silence descended so abruptly the desert felt unreal.
A single rider came forward.
A broad-shouldered Apache man perhaps thirty-five years old.
Gray shirt.
Dark vest.
Rifle across his saddle.
A second older man followed.
Then a woman.
Elena whispered:
“Joseph.”
Caleb remembered the fever.