Small talk mostly. The weather. The horses. Whether the chickens needed more feed.
Nothing about Matto or the army or what would happen when Captain Hollis returned. We both knew he would return. Men like Hollis don't accept being challenged in front of their troops. They nurse their wounded pride until it festers into action.
On the fourth morning, I woke to find Takala already up, standing at the window. The sky was still dark, the sun not yet threatening the horizon. "Something's wrong," she said without turning around. I joined her at the window.
At first, I saw nothing but the usual landscape of snow and shadow. Then I caught it. A faint orange glow to the south, maybe five miles away. Too steady to be lightning.
Too bright to be a campfire. "Fire," I said.
"Not just fire. That is the Morrison ranch. I saw it when I rode through with Kuruk's people. Three buildings."
"That much flame means all of them are burning."
We watched in silence as the glow intensified, then gradually began to fade. By the time the sun came up, there was only smoke, a dark column rising into the pale morning sky. I was saddling my horse when Takala emerged from the house, dressed for riding. "You should stay here," I said.
"No. If this is what I think it is, we both need to see."
We rode south together, pushing the horses harder than I liked through the snow. It took us an hour to reach what was left of the Morrison place. The buildings were still smoldering. The main house had collapsed in on itself.
Just a skeleton of blackened timbers. The barn was a pile of ash. The smaller outbuilding, maybe a smokehouse or storage shed, had fared slightly better. But not by much.
And in the yard, written in stones large enough to read from horseback, was a message.
"Apache revenge."
But there were no bodies. No blood. No signs of violence beyond the fire itself.
Takala dismounted and walked the perimeter of the ruins, reading the ground the way her people had taught her. I watched her crouch beside a set of tracks, then move to another set, her face growing darker with each discovery. "Five horses," she said. "Shod horses."
"The Apache do not shoe their horses this way. And look."
She pointed to a clear boot print in the snow. Army boots. Standard cavalry issue. I saw it too.
The distinctive tread. The size. These weren't Apache raiders. This was something else entirely.
"Hollis," I said.
"Yes. He burns his own people's ranch and blames my people. Now he has his excuse for war."
A cold knot formed in my stomach. The Morrisons had pulled out two months ago, heading back east after a bad summer nearly bankrupted them. I'd bought some of their equipment at auction. The ranch had been abandoned.