But there will be many more coming for us. Before I could answer, we both heard it. Faint and distant hoof beatats. Not one horse, several. We reached the window at the same moment.
A small cloud of dust had appeared along the horizon. The riders were still far away, but they were coming hard. Nia judged the distance with a single glance. Less than an hour. I shook my head.
No. I pointed toward a set of fresh hoof prints pressed into the trail. Those horses are traveling light. No packs and no extra weight. I looked toward the dust again. 30 minutes.
Her breathing became slower, not from fear, from concentration. We moved through the cabin, inspecting every window, door, and possible weakness. We shoved the cabinet against the rear entrance, filled buckets with water, divided the ammunition, and placed loaded rifles in different corners so that neither of us would be left without a weapon if a gunfight forced us away from our first position. While we worked, I realized something I had not expected. I had lived in that cabin for 5 years.
Naya had been inside for barely 5 minutes. Yet, she had already discovered two vulnerable places I had never noticed. She was not some helpless victim waiting to be protected. She was a survivor. Once we had done everything possible to prepare the cabin, silence settled around us again.
Nia braced the rifle against her shoulder and watched the trail. You still don't know my name. I studied her for a moment. She continued before I could answer. My people call me Nia.
Her expression hardened slightly. The people at Red Mesa Mission insisted on calling me Anna. That name never felt like it belonged to me. I nodded slowly. Then Nia it is.
She dipped her head in quiet acknowledgement. And you? I glanced at the weathered badge still hanging beneath my vest. Most folks just call me old man these days. For the first time, a genuine smile appeared on her face.
Small, brief, but enough to change the feeling inside the cabin. No. She slowly shook her head. Tired men speak the way you do. Old men would have surrendered already. Before I could answer, a shout carried in from outside.
Wade Coulter. The voice was deep, unfamiliar, and filled with quiet confidence. We know the Apache woman is inside. Send Nia out, and no one else has to die. Nia raised her rifle without a moment's hesitation.
I did the same. The real battle had finally reached our doorstep. The stranger's words echoed across the valley. Give us Nia, and no one else has to die. I did not answer right away.