Another rested his hand too close to the butt of his revolver and the third spat in the dirt with every step of his horse as if marking his claim. Nielli stood in the yard, a basket of kindling in her arms. The moment she saw them, she knew what they were. Men looking to prove themselves at someone else's cost. She set the basket down, her shoulders stiff, and walked toward the porch where Elias had just stepped out.
He carried no rifle, only his worn revolver at his side, but his posture was enough. The leader, a broad man with a scar across his cheek, spoke first. "Evening Carver, looks like you've made yourself a new arrangement out here." His tone was mocking, loud enough for the others to hear. Paper or no paper?
Folks, don't take kindly to an Apache woman playing homesteader. Elias leaned against the post, his arms loose at his sides. His voice was flat. You've had your say. Now ride on.
The second man laughed, a sharp sound that carried in the dry air. We're not here for talk. We're here to remind you the town don't want her. You turn her out. We're done.
You keep her. Then you're choosing sides you can't hold. His hand brushed his revolver again. Slow, letting the weight of the gesture hang. Nielli moved closer to the porch, her hands steady on the gate latch.
Her ribs still ache some days, but she didn't falter. If they rushed the yard, she'd hold the gate until Elias fired. Her mind raced, not in fear of dying, but in fear of being dragged back into a life of running when she had only just found solid ground. The standoff might have broken bloody if not for the voice that came from the elm beyond the fence. That's far enough.
Sheriff Burke stepped in sight, his revolver already in hand, barrel low, but unmistakably ready. He had been watching since dusk, following a hunch that men like these wouldn't let silence last too long. The scar man turned his horse halfway, sneering. Sheriff, this ain't your fight. Burke's jaw tightened.
It's the county's fight if you draw on a man at his own fence. You want to push it? Then I'll bury the first one who does. His tone left no doubt. The men hesitated.
The scarred leader spat again, but the sound carried less conviction now. This ain't over, Carver. You'll wish you'd thought harder. With that, he yanked his reigns, and the three horses turned back up the road, their curses fading into the dusk. The yard fell quiet.