Elias Mercer had been bleeding for almost four hours when he heard the horse.
At first he thought it was another trick of the heat. The September sun had baked the red stone of the Arizona Territory until the narrow ravine around him seemed to breathe. Every few minutes his vision blurred, the pines above him leaned strangely against the sky, and noises that were not there came wandering through the silence.
Then he heard leather creak.
A hoof struck stone.
Elias opened his eyes.
His right hand moved automatically toward the revolver lying beside his boot.
He stopped before touching it.
If the men who shot him had returned, lifting the weapon would accomplish little. His left side was soaked dark beneath his tan shirt, his fingers had become numb, and every attempt to stand ended with him sliding back against the rocks.
The horse appeared first.
A dark mare stepped between two large boulders twenty yards away, reins hanging loosely. A worn saddle sat across its back, a rifle secured beneath one side.
Then the woman appeared.
She walked beside the horse rather than riding it.
Tall.
Straight-backed.
Long black hair divided into two heavy braids.
A brown buckskin shirt fell nearly to her knees above fitted leggings and dusty moccasins. A narrow leather strap crossed her chest, and three small silver pieces hung beneath her throat.
Apache.
Elias knew enough to know that much.
She saw him immediately.
Her hand moved to the rifle.
Elias let his head fall back against the rock.
“Of course.”
The woman stopped.
He looked toward her.
“If you’re planning to shoot me, aim higher than the last fellow.”
No reaction.
She studied the ravine.
Then him.
Then his horse, which stood fifty yards farther down among the trees with a broken rein dragging beneath one stirrup.
The woman removed the rifle.
Elias watched.
He was too exhausted to be frightened correctly.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take the horse before I’m dead.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“You talk too much.”
Her English was clear.
Elias blinked.
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
She approached.
The rifle remained in her hands.
When she reached ten feet, she stopped again.
“Who shot you?”
“A man with bad manners.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Name.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That was stupid.”
Elias almost smiled.
“I was occupied.”
She looked at the blood across his shirt.
“Where?”
“Side.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
Her stare made him regret attempting humor.
She lowered the rifle.
Not fully.
Enough.
“What are you carrying?”
“Poor judgment.”
Her eyes dropped toward the leather satchel beneath his right arm.
Elias became still.
The woman noticed immediately.
“That.”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing worth getting killed over.”
“You are already almost killed.”
“Exactly.”
She stepped closer.
Elias reached toward the revolver.
The rifle rose instantly.
His hand stopped.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Elias pushed the revolver away from himself.
It slid across the dirt.
The woman watched.
“Better?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
She leaned the rifle against the stone without taking her eyes from him.
Then crouched.
Elias smelled sage, horse, leather, and dust.
She pulled his bloody hand away from his side.
Pain ripped through him.
He swore.
“You make that noise again, I leave.”
“I was expressing gratitude.”
“You express badly.”
She opened his shirt enough to inspect the wound.
The bullet had passed through the flesh along his lower ribs rather than burying itself inside him. Elias knew that much because he had found the exit tear with his fingers before the bleeding made him too weak to investigate further.
The woman looked at both sides.
“You are lucky.”
“I’ve been reconsidering that.”
“It went through.”
“I noticed.”
“No bone.”
“Didn’t notice that.”
She stood and walked toward the horse.
Elias watched her remove a cloth bundle from one saddlebag.
“Who are you?”
She returned.
“No.”