One evening, as the sun sank blood-red behind the horizon, he heard hoofbeats pounding in. A new group of militiamen—not Ward's men, but a self-proclaimed gang of patriots, bloodthirsty men hungry to avenge the white man's pride.
The leader wore buckskin, with a thick beard and eyes red like ash. "Heard you're still wearing savage beads, Corbin Hail."
"I wear what reminds me I was once saved."
The man sneered and dropped a lit match into a pile of dry straw. "Let's see if your Apache guardian can save you from fire."
The flames exploded. In seconds, the fence, the grain shed, even the small house were engulfed. Corbin grabbed a water bucket, but the wind turned fierce, whipping the fire onto the roof. He shouted, trying to save the horses, but no man could stand against that kind of destruction.
Then came the sound of hooves from the east: steady, heavy, thunderous. Nahon appeared, riding a black horse as massive as a living boulder. She leapt into the fire, her bare shoulders gleaming red, her eyes blazing like the very flames trying to consume her.
Behind her, thirty Apache warriors charged in on horseback, spears raised, throwing wet hides and sand to beat back the blaze. The fire broke; smoke spiraled skyward like fleeing spirits.
The militia leader drew his gun and yelled, "You going to die with that traitor?"
Nahon stepped forward, her voice booming like thunder: "No, I came to save the well! This place belongs to the thirsty, not to hate!"
No one dared pull a trigger.
Wind rose; red dust swirled between the two sides. And then, from a distant ridge, Ward, the former captain, appeared, shouting, "Lower your weapons! Stand down! No one here is the enemy!"