Two Moons was weak, but could ride. As Elias went to saddle the horses, he kicked something half buried in the snow near the dead runner saddle bags. It was a crate. It had split open during the fight. Inside were bottles of cheap whiskey, but it was the wood of the crate that stopped Elias's heart.
Burned into the side. Clear as day was the brand. V TTC, Vain Trading Company, GV contract 404, and stuck in the slat of the wood was a scrap of paper, a shipping manifest tucked there by a careless clerk. It listed flour, 50 barrels, but the handwriting next to it noted whiskey, 20 cases. Dest North Ridge.
North Ridge was where the raids always started. We have it, Elias said, holding up the slat of wood. We have the link. Vain is supplying the whiskey to the raiders using government wagons. Winona looked at the wood, then at Elias.
Her face hardened. Then we go back, she said. And we finished this. The return to the camp was solemn. They rode in like ghosts returning from the underworld.
When they entered the chief's lodge, Elias laid the wood in the manifest on the ground before Standing Elk. He told the story. He told them about the men, the fight, and the brand. The chief listened. He looked at his daughter's bruised face.
He looked at Two Moon's bandaged shoulder. And he looked at the crate. He stood up. The grief that had bowed his shoulders seemed to evaporate, replaced by a cold, deadly resolve. He did not call for a defense.
He did not call for a retreat. At dawn, he said, his voice rolling like thunder. We go to the fort, he looked at Elias. You will guide us. You will show them this proof, and you will not go alone.
The next morning, the sun rose on a sight that chilled Elias to the bone, yet filled him with a strange, fierce pride. Waiting in the valley, mounted on their war ponies. Their faces painted for battle were the warriors. They were not in a circle this time. They were in a column.
321 men. They were not waiting for a wedding. They were waiting for war. The journey to Fort Defiance was a march through a white purgatory. The column of 321 warriors moved with a silence that unnerved even the wolves trailing in their wake.
There was no singing, no boasting, only the rhythmic crunch of frozen snow under the hooves of war ponies and the creak of leather stiffened by the frost. Elias Thorne rode near the front, flanked by Iron Dog and Two Moons, the injury in his thigh burned with the cold, a constant dull reminder of the whiskey runners. But he kept his spine straight. He watched Winona. She rode a dun mare wrapped in layers of buffalo hide.
Her face set in a mask of grim determination. Every mile they put behind them seemed to strip away a layer of her softness, replacing it with something harder, something brittle and sharp like obsidian. The land fought them. They crossed streams where the ice was deceptive, thick at the edges, but rotting in the center. They spent long nights huddled in shallow ravines where the wind sounded like distant rhythmic crying, a sound that made the horses stamp and roll their eyes.
On the fifth day, the wilderness gave way to the scarred earth of settlement. They passed the boundary markers of the Miller ranch, now just a blackened chimney and a few charred posts protruding from the snow. The work of the whiskey runners blamed on the tribe. As the column moved onto the main road leading to the town of Crossing, the reception changed from the indifference of nature to the hostility of man. Crossing was a collection of roughcut lumber buildings and muddy streets that had frozen into ruts.
As the column of warriors appeared on the ridge, a bell began to ring in the town. A frantic, clanging alarm. They did not ride through the town. The chief was wise enough to skirt the perimeter, but the town came out to watch. Men stood on porches and rooftops, rifles cradled in their arms, their breath steaming in the air.
Women peered through curtains, their faces pale with a mixture of terror and fascination. Elias felt the hatred washing over them. It was a physical thing, heavier than the snow. As they passed a small whitewashed church on the edge of the settlement, a man in a black coat stepped out. He was a preacher, his face red with the cold and righteousness.
He pointed a shaking finger at Winona. Behold the temptation, he shouted, his voice cracking. Behold the pagan snare that drags good men to hell. A glob of spit flew from the crowd. Landing on the flank of Winona's mare, the horse danced sideways.
Winona did not look at the preacher. She did not wipe the spit away. She stared straight ahead. Her chin lifted so high it looked painful. A man near the blacksmith shop raised a rifle.
Tracking Elias. You traitor, the man yelled. You filth. Elias's hand drifted to the Navy colt at his hip. He felt the tension ripple through the warriors behind him.
321 hands tightened on lances and repeaters. One shot. That was all it would take to turn this muddy road into a slaughter house. Don't, Winona said. She had not looked at him, but she sensed his movement.
Do not give them the excuse. Elias moved his hand away from the gun, but he rode closer to her, placing his horse between her and the crowd. He felt the eyes of his own people on him, judging his restraint and the eyes of the settlers, judging his betrayal. He belonged to neither world now. He was an island drifting in a sea of hostility.
They reached the fort at midday. Fort Defiance was a sprawling complex of timber and stone. The American flag snapping violently in the wind above the parade ground. The gates were closed. Along the walls, bluecoated sentries walked their posts, their rifles shouldered.