Fall back!" Luke screamed. "To the ravine!" They abandoned the pass, scrambling back toward the horses they had hidden. They rode hard, blood dripping from Luke's arm, fear driving them faster than the pain. They reached the entrance to the hidden ravine just as the second group of Morgan's men crested the ridge. The ambush was already happening.
Luke saw the scene in fragments of nightmare clarity. The women and children were scattering, running for the caves. Nantan was there, standing in the open, firing an old pistol to draw fire away from a group of mothers. Ayanna was running toward a child who had frozen in terror in the middle of the wash, a little girl, no more than five. A rider, a man in a dusty duster, raised his rifle, aiming at the child.
Nantan moved. He didn't run, he threw himself. He covered the distance with the last burst of strength in his old body, stepping in front of the child just as the rifle cracked. Nantan jerked back as if hit by a sledgehammer. He fell, covering the child with his body.
"Father!" The scream tore out of Ayanna's throat. It was a sound so full of agony it seemed to stop the battle for a heartbeat. It hit Luke in the chest harder than the bullet had. Taza let out a roar of grief and charged the rider, shooting him out of the saddle at point-blank range. The defenders from the pass poured fire into the attackers, fueled by a rage that went beyond survival.
Caught between the new arrivals and the difficult terrain, Morgan's men faltered. They had lost their element of surprise and their easy targets. When two more of them dropped, the rest wheeled their horses and fled, retreating back toward the main force. The guns fell silent. The dust began to settle.
Luke slid from his horse, his legs giving way. He stumbled toward the center of the wash. Ayanna was on the ground, cradling her father's head in her lap. Nantan's chest was a ruin of blood. His breath came in wet, shallow rattles.
Taza stood over them, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his face, his rifle hanging limp in his hand. Luke fell to his knees beside them. Nantan's eyes fluttered open. He looked at Ayanna. He reached up a trembling hand to touch her face.
"Do not let the hate eat you." he whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Live, Ayanna. Lead them. Choose life." His eyes shifted to Luke. He saw the wound on Luke's shoulder.
He saw the grief in the white man's eyes. Nantan's hand moved from Ayanna's face and blindly sought Luke's. Luke took it. The old hand squeezed with a surprising final strength. It was a transfer of weight, a silent command.
"Take care of them." the grip said. Then the strength vanished. Nantan's hand went slack, his eyes fixed on the blue sky above the canyon walls. Ayanna went rigid. She didn't wail.