Two Colt.45s, both cylinders full. A Winchester rifle, loaded and ready, with enough rounds for a small war. It would have to be enough. My first shot dropped the lookout posted high on the canyon ridge, silent, clean, before he could raise the alarm. The second shot was for the man standing over Rook Vatcher.
It spun him around and slammed him face-first into the dirt of the corral. After that, hell broke loose. The Holt Syndicate scattered like startled quail. Some dove behind wagons and crates. Others scrambled for their guns.
I'd caught them off guard, and it took them a few precious seconds to figure out where the fire was coming from. I used every second. The rifle bucked against my shoulder as I poured shots into the camp, picking off anyone trying to rally the others. Years as a hired gun had taught me one thing. Shoot fast, shoot true, and don't hesitate.
Those lessons were keeping me alive. In the middle of the chaos, I saw Rook break free and sprint toward the shelter where they were holding Sihaya. Down below, Varick Holt was shouting orders, trying to pull his men together, but the surprise had already torn his camp apart. Then I saw her. Sihaya burst out of the shelter, no longer bound, gun in hand.
Even in the middle of the gunfight, something hit me hard. Relief and pride. She wasn't just alive, she was fighting. But Holt saw her, too, and he moved fast, cutting her off with what men he had left. I shifted my fire, covering her path, trying to keep the distance clear, but I was running low on ammunition, and there were still too many of them between her and freedom.
And then, she did something I'll never forget. Instead of diving for cover, she turned and charged straight at Holt. A war cry tore from her throat, echoing through the canyon like something out of an old legend. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Even the gunfire seemed to fade.
Every man there, outlaws included, stared at the towering Apache woman, nearly 7 ft tall, storming toward their leader like an avenging spirit. Holt barely had time to draw. She was already on him. The impact was like watching a force of nature collide with everything rotten in this world. She was taller, faster, driven by grief and fury.
He was hardened, vicious, fighting to survive. They crashed together, locked in a brutal tangle. Holt's weapons flew from his hands, lost in the dust as Sihaya drove him to the ground. From my position on the ridge, I could see them struggling, but I didn't have a clean shot without risking her. Down below, Rook had reached the horses, fighting to carve a way out, but Holt's remaining men were regrouping now, returning fire in tighter, more controlled bursts.
The high ground gave me an edge, but I was still outnumbered. And then I heard it. The sound that changed everything. Hoofbeats, loud, fast, echoing off the canyon walls. At first, I thought it was more of Holt's men riding in.