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.
Then I saw them crest the ridge. Garrick Vane, riding hard with a dozen men from the Dust Veil folk behind him, armed and charging straight into the fight. Merrell must have convinced him we needed help, and he answered. The moment they hit the canyon floor, the tide turned. Holt's men, already shaken, broke under the pressure.
Some ran for their horses. Others fled on foot, disappearing into the rocks. But Holt, he was still fighting Sihaya, and the fight was turning desperate. He was bigger, stronger, and he'd managed to pin her down, one hand already reaching for the knife at his belt. I didn't have a clean shot.
Didn't matter. I fired anyway. The bullet tore into Varick Holt's shoulder, snapping him sideways and breaking his grip on Sihaya just long enough for her to break free. She hit the ground, rolled, and came up in one smooth motion I'd already learned to admire. Blood stained her dress, but her eyes, they burned.
Holt was hurt, but not finished. He lunged again, knife in his good hand, his face twisted with rage and pain. Sihaya was ready. She slipped the strike, drove her knee hard into his gut, folding him just enough. And what came next was fast, final.
She tore the knife from his hand with a move clean enough to impress any soldier alive. And when she rose to her full height, Varick Holt was no longer a threat to anyone. The fight was over. The Holt Syndicate scattered like dust on the wind. Their leader lay dead, and the danger to the Ash Trail Caravan was gone.