The judge asked quietly. O'Malley tried to speak, but only a squeak came out. He nodded, terrified. The mood in the room shifted instantly. It turned from hostility to a dangerous, simmering confusion.
These men were hard. They hated the Apache, yes, but they hated a cheat even more. And they hated a man who played them for fools most of all. Morgan stood up, his face turning a dark, mottled red. This is ridiculous, he roared.
I'm a businessman. I'm bringing civilization to this godforsaken dust bowl, and you listen to this, this deserter, this white Indian? He pulled a pistol from his coat, not aiming it yet, but holding it like a gavel. "I will not be put on trial by a traitor." Morgan shouted. "Captain Harlan, arrest him.
Shoot him. He's an enemy combatant." Harlan hesitated. He looked at the crowd. He saw the doubt in their eyes. He saw the judge reading the ledger.
He saw his own name written there in black ink. Outside the town, on a ridge overlooking the valley, Ayanna lay flat on her stomach watching the courthouse through a spyglass Luke had stolen. Taza lay beside her. They saw the commotion through the windows. They saw Morgan stand up.
"Now." Ayanna said. Taza raised a red blanket and dropped it three times. A mile to the east, a thin column of smoke began to rise, then another to the north, then a third to the west. Simultaneously, a young warrior galloped past the telegraph poles leading out of town. He threw a rope with a heavy stone weight over the wires, tied it to his saddle horn, and spurred his horse.
The wires snapped with a sound like a whip crack, singing as they coiled back toward the poles. Inside the courthouse, a man near the window shouted, "Smoke! Look at the hills!" The crowd rushed to the windows. They saw the distinct black columns rising against the blue sky. "They are signaling." Someone yelled, "The Apache!
They are all around us!" Luke stood his ground. He looked at Morgan, who was staring at the window with a look of dawning horror. "You thought they were a ragged band of starving refugees." Luke said softly. "You were wrong. They are an army, and right now they are cutting your telegraph lines.
You can't call for help, Morgan, and you can't lie to Washington anymore." Luke turned to the judge. "They do not want a war. Judge, they want the high valley. The one the treaty promised them 10 years ago, the one Morgan tried to steal with ink and bribes." Luke leaned on the table, his good hand gripping the edge. "Grant them the land.