A third horse, loaded with gear, followed behind them. They were not traveling fast. That bothered Ran more than if they had been galloping. The riders kept studying the ground, the treeline, and the distant buildings with the kind of attention men gave a place when they were hunting for something specific. They were not passing through.
They were searching. Ran dropped what he was doing and headed straight back to the cabin. Aina sat beside the table working once again on the old harness leather. The moment Ran entered, she looked up and set the tool down. He told her about the riders.
She already knew. She had heard the horses from inside the cabin long before Ran returned. Her few belongings were already rolled tightly beside the wall. "They're coming here," Ran said. "They've probably seen the chimney smoke." Aina did not move.
Ran thought for a moment, then spoke in a tone that left no room for doubt. I want you in the back room. Stay there until this is over. Aina slowly shook her head. Ran knew that look by now.
It was the same refusal she had given him before. Only this time there was something harder beneath it, something final. She stood. Only then did Ran see the short ash bow hidden among her belongings. It was a compact recurve bow, well-made, tightly strung, and ready to use.
She had never shown it to him. The calm way she lifted it told Ran immediately that this was not the first dangerous situation she had faced. "This isn't your fight," he said. Aina gave him a look that came close to contempt. "My ankle," she answered in slow, careful Spanish.
Ran stared at her. Until that moment, he had not realized she knew the language at all. Then she added, ""My trap."" Ran said nothing for a second. Aina sat back down with the bow resting across her knees. "I stay here." He understood enough.
Arguing would get him nowhere. About an hour before sunset, the three men finally rode out from the trees. They had the look of men hardened by long roads and dirty work. Men accustomed to earning money in ways respectable people did not ask too many questions about. The rider in front had several weeks of beard on his face and cold eyes that moved over the property with professional care.
Ran waited in the yard. His rifle rested easily in his hands. He was not aiming it. He did not need to. The message was plain enough.
The bearded man introduced himself as a licensed trapper working the surrounding country. He said somebody had been interfering with his traps and that he had come to find out who was responsible. Ran told him he knew nothing about it. The stranger studied the cabin. Then he looked back at Ran.