Ezra kept his eyes forward, rifle tied to his saddle. His horse, a big chestnut gelding, moved steady under him, though he wasn't used to this kind of riding.
After two hours, they reached a dry ridge below Snake Creek. Takakota raised his hand. Everyone stopped. Ezra dismounted with the others, crawled forward with Takakota and the chief to a narrow overlook.
Below them was a clearing beside the dry creek, and the camp: four wagons, iron cages in the beds. Inside those cages: women, children, maybe twenty people total—silent, staring, hollow-eyed. Around the camp, fifteen armed men moved slow and lazy, confident, careless: slavers, the kind who didn't care who bled as long as coin changed hands.
Ezra's jaw tightened.
Takakota whispered, "We split. Half circle north, make noise, draw fire. The rest go south, free cages."
The chief looked at Ezra. "Your choice: fight or rescue."
Ezra didn't hesitate. "Rescue."
Takakota gave a quick nod. "Good. People first."
They waited until the sun dropped low, light turning gold across the rocks. Then the signal came: a sharp bird call from the north.
The war cries broke. Gunfire followed, sharp and sudden.
Ezra moved fast with the rescue group down the slope into shadow. He reached the first cage and saw three young women huddled inside. He smashed the lock with a rock—once, twice—then it gave.
"Go," he said. "Run that way." He pointed to the ridge. The women hesitated, then ran.
More cages, more captives. Each freed one faster than the last.
Then, shouting behind them: slavers, three of them, rifles raised. Ezra fired once, dropped one. The others kept coming. Takakota appeared from nowhere; his rifle barked twice. Silence again.
Ezra breathed hard. The battle was beginning to shift, and not everyone could run.