The darkness was alive. The herd, 200 head of terrified muscle and horn, was pouring down the slope, driven by riders firing into the air. They were heading straight for the fencing, straight for the structures. "Eli," she screamed. He was already moving, mounting his horse bareback in the corral, shouting for the men.
"Turn them! Turn them west or they will hit the house! " Dust choked the air, thick and blinding. The sound was deafening. The thunder of 800 hooves, the bawling of calves, the shouting of men. Maggie grabbed a lantern and ran toward the gate, waving the light, trying to spook the leaders away from the garden fence.
Out of the swirling grit, a rider appeared, not one of theirs. He held a torch. He didn't throw it at the cattle. He threw it onto the porch of the ranch house. The drywood, cured by years of wind and sun, caught instantly.
Maggie screamed, torn between the cattle and the fire. She ran back, grabbing a bucket of water from the trough, throwing it on the flames that were licking up the support pillars. The fire roared, eating into the parlor wall, shattering the window glass with the heat. In the pasture, the chaos turned tragic. Billy, the young ranch hand, who had only just started to fill out his frame, rode hard to cut off the lead steer.
His horse stumbled in a gopher hole. There was no time to scream. The horse went down and the wave of cattle rolled over them. "Billy! " Eli roared. He spurred his horse into the mass, firing his gun into the ground to split the herd.
He reached the boy, leaping from his horse to shield the broken body with his own, the hooves pounding inches from his head. The stampede broke, the cattle scattering into the dark, leaving behind a silence that was louder than the noise had been. The fire on the porch hissed and died as Gus and the other hands doused it with wet blankets and dirt, but the damage was done. The parlor was a blackened, gaping ruin. The front of the house looked like a skull with the teeth kicked out, but the house could be fixed.
Eli knelt in the dirt of the pasture, his shirt torn, his face masked in dust and blood. Billy lay still, his neck was broken. He looked very young, his eyes wide and staring at the smoke choked stars. Eli gathered the boy into his arms. He rocked him, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat.
It was the sound of a man who had reached his limit. They carried Billy to the bunk house. Maggie washed the boy's face, her own tears making tracks in the soot on her cheeks. Eli stood in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame so hard the wood splintered. "This is murder," Eli whispered.
Before dawn, the sheriff returned. He did not come alone. He brought four deputies with shotguns. "Eli Mercer," Sheriff Brady said, stepping over the charred debris on the porch. "You are under arrest. " "For what? " Maggie cried, stepping between Eli and the lawman.
"For being attacked, for losing a man? For criminal negligence resulting in death? " Brady recited, avoiding her eyes. and for making terroristic threats against Mr. Crane. We have a witness who says you swore to burn this valley down if you couldn't have your way. Seems you started with your own place to cover your tracks.
It was a lie so bold it took the breath from her lungs. They handcuffed Eli. He did not fight. He looked at Maggie, his eyes burning with a desperate, terrifying intensity. Stay in the house, he told her.