"I will stop them," he said. "We will stop them," she corrected, and her hand went unconsciously to her stomach. On the third morning, the sun rose hot and blinding. The air was still, too. The homestead was on its last canteen of water.
The creek was 100 yards down the canyon. A necessary, dangerous trip. I have to go, he said. The canteens are dry. I will come.
No, you stay. You watch. He handed her his field glass. Watch the trail. One rifle shot if you see them.
One, then you run. Don't wait for me. He hated leaving her. Every instinct screamed against it, but thirst was an enemy that would kill them just as surely as Pike. He grabbed the two largest wooden buckets and headed down the trail, his rifle in his other hand.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning, his ears straining. Tyen stood on the porch. The rifle heavy in her hands, she watched him disappear into the pinons. The silence of the valley was absolute, broken only by the buzz of a fly. She was using the field glass, scanning the ridge.
When she saw them, not on the main trail, but coming over the northern ridge, the hard way, the way they would not be expected. Four riders, one in a black coat, Clay Hackett, Jeb Smith the Drifter, and Reverend Pike. Her heart did not hammer. It went cold and still. One rifle shot.
She raised the rifle, aimed at the sky, and fired. The sound cracked across the valley. Then she did as he said. She dropped the rifle, grabbed the pistol he had left for her, and ran. She did not run for the cabin.
She ran for the trees, but she was not fast enough. They had heard the shot. They spurred their horses crashing through the brush and saw her. "There she is!" Hackett roared, his voice thick with hate.
"Grab the!" Tyen ran barefoot, her feet slipping on the pine needles, but the horses were fast. The drifter cut her off, his horse rearing as he blocked her path. She spun, but Hackett was on her. He launched himself from the saddle, tackling her. his heavy body driving the air from her lungs.
She was plunged back into the nightmare, the smell of unwashed wool, of whiskey, the bruising grip, the coldness. She screamed, a raw animal sound, and fought, her nails raking for his eyes. "Hold still, you heathen!" he snarled, trying to pin her wrists. Pike reined in his horse, his face a mask of pale fury. "Brother Hackett, do not harm her.
She is a ward of the church. Bind her." She needs to be taught a lesson first. Preacher, Hackett grunted, his face close to hers. He was enjoying this.