He hadn't meant to say it loud. Came out loud anyway. Without those horses, he said that tribe can't hunt. Can't move camp when the snow comes. Can't do anything but sit there and freeze.
Harmon looked him over slow. The way a man looks at a horse, he's deciding whether to buy or shoot. And you are nobody you need to worry about. Stranger giving speeches in my town square. Harmon smiled.
Almost. That's new. Somebody has to. Nobody has to do a damn thing for Apaches, friend. This from a thinner man near the wagon, arms crossed, spitting the word Apaches like it tasted bad in his mouth.
10 armed men took those horses. 10. You want to ride out there and get yourself killed over some Indians? That's your business. Just don't expect this town to grieve you.
Silence for a second. Ezra felt something old wake up in his chest. Something that had been sleeping 11 years. He didn't reach for it. Didn't want it.
Came anyway. Because grief has a way of doing that. Waking up uninvited. Standing in doorways you thought you'd locked. An older man pushed through the crowd. then weathered face eyes too tired for the rest of him.
He looked at Ezra like he was the first honest thing he'd seen all morning. You asking serious? The old man said about the horses? I am. Name's Whitfield.
I trade with the Apache camp some seasons. Good people, fair people. He glanced back at Harmon like he expected to be shouted down. Nobody shouted, just watched. Raiders hit them three nights back.
Before dawn, cut the corral rope, drove the whole herd off toward the red mountains. Which way exactly? West through the drywash, then up into the canyons. Whitfield's jaw tightened. Nobody comes back from those canyons.