Ezra lifted a young Mexican woman from the cage. She could barely stand; her feet were torn, her eyes empty. He wrapped her arm over his shoulder and moved fast, ducking behind a wagon as bullets cracked through the air.
Takakota shouted from behind a stack of crates, "To the rocks! Get them out!"
More slavers were coming from the north side of camp, their surprise gone, but not their rage. Gunfire lit the dust. Ezra ran, carrying the woman. An Apache scout took her hand and led her uphill while Ezra turned back.
Two children were still in the last cage: a boy and girl, maybe eight and ten. They clung to the bars. Ezra fired at the lock; it held. Another shot; it snapped.
He pulled the door open. "Come on," he said, voice flat but firm.
The boy ran. The girl hesitated. Ezra reached in, lifted her with one arm, and ran.
Behind him, a slaver stepped out with a shotgun. Ezra didn't stop; he turned sideways, shielding the girl.
A shot rang out, but not from the shotgun. The slaver dropped.
Ayana stood behind a barrel, small pistol smoking in her hand. Ezra didn't have time to speak; he nodded once. She nodded back.
They got the last captives up the hill. Takakota and three others stayed low, firing cover shots. One was hit—a graze to the leg—but he kept shooting.
The fight didn't last long after that. The Apache were better, faster, smarter. By the time the dust settled, fifteen slavers were dead; not one escaped.
The rescued sat in the shade, drinking water, silent in shock. Some wept, others just stared.
Ezra stood beside a wagon, hands on his knees, breath shaking.
Chief Nal-Nish walked up. "You fought well," he said simply. "Like Apache."
Ezra nodded. "Not sure what that means yet."