The rider called again: "Send her out, white man! Or we take her and leave your bones for the buzzards!"
Silas stepped back from the window. He opened the cabinet, pulled out his second rifle, and handed it to the girl. She nodded, quiet but steady.
"Fight, too," she said.
Outside, the wind picked up. The standoff had begun.
The rider gave no third warning, just sat still, waiting. His face was calm, his hands rested on the reins, but everything about him said violence was close.
Silas kept his rifle lowered, but ready. Behind him, the girl—Ayana, that was her name—was quiet now, watching. Her eyes flicked from the window to Silas, then back to the ridgeline.
Then another figure appeared: older, still heavy with authority. The drum stopped.
Ayana's grip on Silas's arm tightened. She said one word: "Father."
The old man raised his hand. A hundred warriors stood still. Silas knew the type: leader, not just by title, but by presence.
He spoke. "White man," he said, his voice deep, accented but strong. "I am Nal-Nish, war chief of the Chiricahua Apache. The girl is my daughter. You will return her to me."
Ayana called out to him in Apache. Her voice was rushed, urgent. Silas caught his own name in the stream of words. She was pleading, explaining.
The chief didn't move. He listened, then nodded once. "She says you saved her," he said, eyes never leaving Silas. "Asked for nothing, expected nothing."
"I couldn't let her die," Silas said. "It was the right thing."
The chief tilted his head. "Most would not have done it." He dismounted, walked forward, slow, unarmed. "Come out," he said. "Bring her. We talk like men."
Silas looked at Ayana. She nodded. He opened the door, stepped out, rifle held low. She followed, limping but upright.
The chief saw her, and for just a moment, his face broke—not much, but enough. Then he looked at Silas.