The high desert wind carried the scent of blood and burnt powder long before Daniel Reed saw the wagon. It was a dry, scouring wind, the kind that came down from the Sangre de Cristo mountains in late October, promising a hard winter. He rode his horse, a solid buckskin geling named Sully, with the easy posture of a man who spent more time in the saddle than on his own two feet. He was not looking for trouble. He was checking his trap lines, but trouble was the primary crop of New Mexico territory.
He found the wreck in a shallow arroyo, 10 miles shy of the Santa Fe Trail. It was a missionary wagon, or had been. One wheel was splintered, the canvas cover was scorched and flapping, and the mules were dead in their traces, throats cut. Two men lay nearby, black, frocked, and pale, their eyes wide with the surprise of meeting their maker so violently. Bandits.
Apaches would have taken the mules. Daniel dismounted, rifle in hand, his gaze sweeping the rocks. Nothing moved. The raid was over. Hours old.
The bandits had been thorough, splitting open sacks of flour and beans, taking whatever ammunition and whiskey they could find. He nudged a body with his boot. The preacher, he'd seen him in town once, shouting about damnation and the heathen soul. A sound small and thin cut through the wind. A scraping like iron on stone.
He moved toward the back of the wagon, his steps quiet, and he saw her. She was chained to the rear axle. The chain was heavy, meant for livestock, and the iron cuff around her ankle was raw and bloody. She was Apache, young, maybe 18 or 19 years old. She wore the ragged remnants of a calico dress, but it was stiff with dried blood from a gash on her forehead.
She was barely conscious, her black hair matted with dirt, her lips cracked in white. When she saw his shadow fall over her, she flinched, a low sound of pure terror rattling in her chest. She tried to scramble backward, but the chain snapped her short, digging into her flesh. Daniel stopped. He lowered the rifle.
He saw the marks on her, the old bruises on her arms, the fresh terror in her eyes. The preacher had not been saving her soul. He had been using her or selling her. The bandits had either missed her or simply left her to die. He holstered the rifle and moved slowly, holding his hands up, palms out.
"Easy," he said. His voice was rough from disuse. "I'm not I won't hurt you." She stared at him, her eyes bottomless, taking in his worn union coat, the beard shadowing his jaw, the sadness he carried like a second skin. He went to his saddlebag and pulled out his canteen in a heavy file.