Three gunshots. That's what stopped me mid-swing, the axe frozen above the pine log. Nobody hunting deer fires three times in a row. Not unless something's gone wrong.
The first two, I figured were hunters. Deer season had another week, and plenty of men from Silver Ridge came out this far when the snow started, looking for elk that wandered down from the high country. But nobody shoots a deer three times in a row. Not unless something's gone wrong.
The axe clattered against the woodpile. My pine log rolled in the snow, settling with a soft thud. The Winchester hung on two nails driven into the barn wall, right where I could grab it without thinking. Five years living alone teaches you to keep certain things close.
Water, firewood, weapons. The cold bit through my coat as I stepped away from the woodpile. December in the Gila River Valley doesn't forgive carelessness. The wind that morning carried ice in its teeth.
I'd seen storms roll in fast enough to bury a man who wandered too far from shelter. But the shots had come from the north pasture, maybe half a mile out, and something in my chest pulled tight when I heard them. I started walking. Then I started running.
The snow was fresh from the night before, about four inches deep, and it slowed me down more than I wanted. My boots punched through the crust with every step, and my breath came out in short white bursts that hung in the air behind me. The fence line that marked the edge of my property ran along a low ridge. When I crested it, I saw them.
Three men on horseback. One figure on foot, stumbling through the drifts. The rider in front had his rifle raised. I didn't think.
I brought the Winchester up and fired into the sky. The crack echoed across the valley, sharp and clean, and all four of them froze. The mounted men turned their horses toward me. The one on foot collapsed into the snow.
I worked the lever action and chambered another round. The sound carried in the cold air, deliberate and unmistakable. "That's far enough," I called out. The lead rider was a big man, maybe 40, with a beard that hadn't seen a razor in months.
He wore a blue cavalry coat that had seen better days and a hat pulled low over his eyes. His horse stamped and snorted, sending up little clouds of steam. "This ain't your concern, old man," he said. His voice had the flat accent of someone born farther east, Kansas maybe, or Missouri.
"On my land, everything's my concern."
He studied me for a long moment. I kept the rifle pointed at the ground between us, but my fingers stayed near the trigger. The other two riders shifted in their saddles. One of them had his hand on his pistol.
The big man spat into the snow. "You know what you're protecting?"
"A boy who's bleeding. That's all I need to know."
"That boy's Apache. His people killed white men. Women, too."
"And what are you? Law?"
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "We're close enough."
"Not close enough for me to let you shoot an unarmed kid on my property."
We stared at each other across 50 yards of snow and sagebrush. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of piñon smoke from somewhere far off. The boy in the snow wasn't moving. I could see blood on his shoulder, dark against the white ground.
Finally, the big man pulled his horse's head around. "Your funeral, old-timer."
"You want to die for a [__]? That's your choice."