We were together. And for the first time in eight years of guilt and five years of grief and however many days of uncertainty, I felt something I'd almost forgotten existed. Hope. The inquiry came and went.
Judge Thornton examined the evidence. Heard testimony from me. From Takala. From Quinn.
Even from a reluctant soldier who confirmed the tracks matched army boots. He issued a ruling that found no evidence of Apache involvement in the Morrison fire and recommended a full military investigation into Captain Hollis's conduct. The army ignored it. Two days after the ruling, Hollis received reinforcements from Fort Union.
Two hundred soldiers. Fresh troops eager for glory and Indian scalps. They set up a perimeter around the Apache hunting grounds and issued an ultimatum. "Surrender and relocate to a reservation in Arizona, or be removed by force."
Kuruk refused. The war everyone had been expecting, everyone except those of us who'd tried to stop it, finally began. But it didn't begin the way Hollis wanted. The Apache didn't attack settlements or burn ranches.
Instead, they disappeared into the mountains, using guerrilla tactics, striking at supply wagons and isolated patrols, then melting away before the army could respond. Public opinion, at least some of it, began to shift. The inquiry had done what Judge Thornton hoped. It had planted doubt.
People asked questions. Why had the army dismissed the judge's findings? If the Apache were such bloodthirsty savages, why weren't they attacking towns? Why did this war feel manufactured?
It didn't stop the war. But it complicated it. Made it messier. More controversial.
Harder to justify with simple stories of civilization versus savagery. Then, one night, three weeks into the conflict, Chaska came to my ranch. "My father wants to see you," he said. "Both of you."
"He has a proposal."
We rode out before dawn, following Chaska deep into the mountains to a hidden canyon where Kuruk had established a temporary camp. The chief looked older than when I'd last seen him, worn down by constant movement and the weight of leading his people through another white man's war. "Silas Garrett. Takala."
"Thank you for coming."
He gestured for us to sit by his fire. "I have been thinking about what you said. About Mexico. About starting over."
"You're considering leaving?" I asked.
"Not all of us. Many will stay and fight. But the women, the children, the elders, they should not have to live like this."
"Running. Hiding. Always one step ahead of soldiers. I want to send them south, across the border, where they can be safe."
"But they will need someone to guide them. Someone the Mexican authorities will not immediately arrest or turn away."
He looked at me meaningfully.
"You want me to take them?" I said.
"You and Takala. You speak Spanish, yes? From your time in the army?"
"Some. Enough to get by."