Dawn had not yet broken. The sky was still thick with gray mist.
Jonas Hail jolted awake to the thunderous pounding of hooves outside his rickety shack. He dragged open the creaky wooden door, and his heart suddenly tightened.Right in front of him sat more than a dozen Apache warriors on horseback, motionless like stone statues. The torchlight cast long shadows on the ground, flickering across their faces and revealing deep crimson war paint. Every gaze was sharp and cold, as if it could pierce through flesh.Leading them was an elderly chief draped in a deer-skinned cloak, his black and silver hair streaming in the wind. He urged his horse forward and spoke in a voice as heavy as boulders tumbling down a cliff:"You must come with us. The tribal council has called your name."Jonas froze, his hand instinctively tightening around the rotting doorframe. He was just a poor rancher, the owner of a few scrawny cows, living in a shack with a leaky roof and crooked walls. For years, no one had paid him any mind. And yet now, a full band of warriors had surrounded his shack, as if cornering a wild beast.Flashes from the night before returned to his mind: an Apache woman collapsing in a mountain ravine, her body soaked in blood, eyes half-open in the throes of death. He had knelt beside her and offered the last sip of water from his canteen.And that single sip of water had now brought him to the doorstep of destiny.Jonas Hail never imagined there would come a day when he would be summoned before an entire tribe. He had always been just a poor rancher, scraping by on the edge of Dry Creek, living in a rotting shack that could collapse in the next strong wind. He was forty-six years old, a former soldier who had worn the uniform during the Civil War. He had known the smell of gunpowder and heard the sound of comrades falling beside him. When he returned home, he had nothing left but deep scars, a battered old rifle, and a pair of calloused hands.