The Apache woman had thrown it. Even wounded, even exhausted, her aim was true. All three hunters were down and bleeding. The young one managed to crawl to his horse and pull himself into the saddle. The other two followed, clutching their wounds.
They rode off at a hard gallop, leaving a trail of blood and curses. Jesse didn't pursue. He never killed unless he had to. He'd seen enough death to last several lifetimes. He dismounted and walked to where the Apache woman had collapsed.
She was conscious but fading, her face pale beneath the sun-darkened bronze of her skin. The wound on her shoulder was bleeding freely. Dehydration hollowed her cheeks and darkened her eyes. Jesse knelt beside her. He opened his canteen and held it to her lips.
She grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. Her eyes, dark as obsidian and just as hard, fixed on his face with suspicion and exhaustion in equal measure. Wait. Her voice was barely a whisper. Why you help?
White soldiers killed my people. Not all white men are soldiers, Jesse said. Drink. She drank slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. Jesse used the water to clean her wound, then tore a strip from his shirt to bind it.
Yes, sir. The shoulder wound was a graze, painful and bleeding, but not fatal. As he worked, he noticed something, a scar on her left shoulder, partially hidden by the blood. Shaped like a crescent moon. Jesse's hands froze.
The woman saw his reaction. It is mark of my bloodline, chief's family. Why you stare? Jesse reached into his vest with shaking hands, drew out the leather charm, held it where she could see, the moon wing symbol, identical to her scar. Because, Jesse said, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't name, 21 years ago, a Chiricahua chief saved an 8-year-old boy lost in this desert.
Before he left, he gave the boy this. Said if I ever saw this mark again, I'd know they were family. The woman's eyes went wide. Her hand, still bloody, reached up to touch the tattoo on her right wrist. The same symbol inked in traditional Apache style.
The symbol of moon wing, she breathed. My father spoke of you. The white boy with blue eyes who survived alone 3 days. He said you had warrior spirit in wrong colored skin. Jesse felt something crack open in his chest, not as heart, though that ached, too.
Something deeper. Your father, he said, Chief Silver Hawk. Where is he? Her face hardened. Pain flashed in her eyes, but also rage, carefully controlled.
Dead. Murdered 3 months ago by a land thief named Silas Crane. And Crane did not stop with killing my father. He took my five sisters, sold them like cattle. I have hunted 3 months and found nothing but lies and cold trails.
Jesse looked at her, really looked. She was younger than he'd first thought, maybe 26, 27. Beautiful in the way of Apache women, with high cheekbones and a mouth that looked like it knew how to laugh, even though it was set in a hard line now. Strong despite her injuries. Her father's daughter in every way that mattered.
What's your name? Jesse asked. Nala. Nala Silver Hawk. Jesse Walker.
And I owe your father everything. What do you need? Nala's eyes narrowed. What? What do you need to get your sisters back?
Your father gave me my life when I had no right to it. I owe that debt, so tell me what you need. Nala studied him for a long moment. Jesse had the distinct feeling she was seeing past his skin, past his words, straight down to the truth of him, just like her father had all those years ago. Finally, she spoke.
I need guns. I need someone who knows white man's ways. I need a warrior who will not run when blood is shed. Jesse stood and offered her his hand. I'm not a hero, Nala.
I'm a broken-down cowboy with a bad heart and a worse past. Yeah, but I keep my debts. She took his hand. Her grip was iron. Then we have deal, Jesse Walker.
But know this, I lead, you follow. This is Apache fight. Jesse actually smiled, the first real smile in months. Fair enough. No.
They made camp under a cluster of mesquite trees as the sun died in the west. Jesse started a small fire and cooked a jackrabbit he'd shot earlier. Nala sat with her back against a rock, drinking water slowly, letting her body recover. Tell me, Jesse said as he turned the rabbit on its spit, tell me about your sisters, about Crane. Nala's face became a mask, but she spoke.
My father, Chief Silver Hawk, owned 2,400 acres near the Gila River in New Mexico Territory. Good land, water rights, registered in 1868 under the Homestead Act. Worth $12,000, maybe more. Jesse whistled low. That was serious money.
Railroad companies want it? Yes, but the land is legally ours. Papers filed, signed, witnessed. Crane cannot steal it unless unless there are no legal heirs to challenge the claim. Nala nodded.
Exactly. So, 3 months ago, Crane came to our village. He had 40 men. They attacked at dawn. My father tried to stop them.
Crane shot him in the back while he was trying to negotiate. Her voice didn't waver, but Jesse saw her hands clench. Before my father died, he gave us the moon wing tattoos, all six daughters. He told us someone would see the mark and remember. Someone who owed a debt.
She looked at Jesse. He meant you. Jesse felt the weight of that settle on his shoulders. Silver Hawk had planned this. Even dying, the old chief had been thinking three moves ahead.
Your sisters, Jesse said, where are they now? Separated. Crane is smart. Kiona, my eldest sister, she is 20, with her is Yazzie, youngest at 12. They are held at Crane's ranch in a place called Devil's Rim, 40 miles northeast of here.
Two guards on them always. 15 men total in the camp. And the others? Winona is 18. Ayana is 16.
They were sold to Mexican slavers 3 weeks ago, taken south to Sonora and Chinowa. Nala's voice finally broke slightly. Chinowa is 14. Crane is holding her in Tucson. He plans to sell her at auction on September 3rd, 9 days from now.
Jesse poked the fire with a stick, thinking. Three locations, five women. Crane had scattered them like seeds to make rescue impossible. What does Crane get out of this? Jesse asked.
Besides the land? He has a deal with the railroad companies. They will pay him $50,000 for our land, but only if the title is clean. No heirs to challenge, no legal claims. So, he kills your father, kidnaps all six daughters, sells or kills them, then files false documents claiming the land was legally transferred.
Yes. And he has connections. The sheriff in Tucson works for him, judges in Santa Fe, even some army officers. Jesse was quiet for a moment, then he said, there's something else you're not telling me. Nala looked at him sharply.
What makes you say that? Because Crane could have just killed all of you. Simpler. But he's keeping you alive, selling you. Why?
Nala's jaw tightened. Because Crane is building something worse than land theft. He takes Apache children young, 8, 9, 10 years old, raises them himself, trains them as soldiers loyal only to him. 15 children over 10 years. Three of them are from my father's own tribe.