When everyone's attention is on the ballroom, um you deliver these to Morrison. Tell him there's an illegal slave auction happening downstairs. Tell him the sheriff knows and is paid to ignore it. Force him to choose sides. " Swift Bird took the documents. "And you? " "I'll be in the ballroom, making sure Chinua isn't sold before Morrison arrives. " "How will you do that? " Nala smiled cold and dangerous.
"By outbidding everyone. And if that fails, by violence. " September 3rd arrived with brutal heat. By 6:00 when Nala played in the Grand Hotel's ballroom, it was filling with men in expensive suits, ranchers, businessmen, one railroad executive from Philadelphia. All of them here for the private acquisition event, drawn by rumors of particularly desirable merchandise. Nala entered at 6:45 p.
M., still wearing her servant disguise, but she'd altered it subtly, added a shawl that could be quickly dropped, removed the bonnet so her hair, though pinned up, could be freed in seconds. Beneath her dress, she wore her traditional Apache clothing. Her knife was strapped to her thigh. Two throwing knives were hidden in her sleeves. She was ready for either outcome, success or violence, possibly both.
The auctioneer was a fat man in his 50s, sweating despite the evening cool. He stood on a raised platform at one end of the ballroom beside a curtain that hid the merchandise from view. At exactly 7:00 p. M., he began. "Gentlemen, welcome to tonight's exclusive event.
We have assembled some of the finest domestic labor opportunities available in the territory. " The curtain opened. Three people stood on the platform, hands bound, eyes downcast. Two were strangers to Nala, but the third made her heart clench. Chinua, her sister. Looking so small and broken that Nala almost abandoned the plan and simply attacked, but she held herself still, waited.
The first two were sold quickly. A woman for $150, a young man for 200. Then the auctioneer gestured to Chinua. "And now, gentlemen, something special, Apache girl age 14, trained in household duties. Starting bid, $100. " A voice from the back.
"100. " Another voice. "150. " A third voice closer to the front. "200. " The railroad executive sitting in the front row raised his hand. "$500. " The room went quiet. That was serious money, more than most of these men could afford for household labor. The auctioneer grinned.
"500 from the gentleman in the front. Do I hear 550? " Silence. "Going once. " Nala stood. Every eye turned to her. "$1,000," she said clearly. The room erupted in murmurs.
Who was this Mexican woman? Where did she get that kind of money? The auctioneer's eyes narrowed with greed. "1,000 from the lady. Do I hear 1,100? " The railroad executive studied Nala, calculating.
Then he raised his hand. "1,500. " "2,000," Nala said immediately. The executive's face darkened. He stood, turning to face her. "Who are you?
I don't recognize you from any of the established families. " "I'm someone with money and interest. That should be sufficient. " "It's not sufficient. This is a private event by invitation only. " Nala drew herself up to her full height. "I have an invitation. Would you like to see? " She reached into her sleeve as if to withdraw papers.
Instead, she threw the knife. It wasn't aimed at anyone. Instead, it buried itself in the wooden platform beside the auctioneer, vibrating with the force of the throw. The message was clear. "I'm armed.
I'm skilled, and I'm not leaving without that girl. " The room exploded into chaos. Men shouted. Some reached for concealed weapons. The auctioneer stumbled backward, and the doors at the back of the ballroom crashed open. Judge Morrison strode in, flanked by 10 US Marshals, all with rifles drawn.
He was 62 years old, gray-bearded, with eyes like chips of flint. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "This auction is illegal under territorial law. Everyone remain where you are. You're all under arrest for participating in human trafficking. " Half the men in the room tried to run.
The Marshals blocked the exits. Three men drew pistols. The Marshals fired warning shots into the ceiling. Plaster rained down. The three men dropped their weapons and raised their hands.
In the confusion, Nala moved. She leaped onto the platform, knife in hand, and cut Chenoa's bonds. Her sister stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. Nala. I'm here.
I have you. We're leaving. But No arguments. Can you run? Yes.
Then run. They ran, not toward the doors, which were blocked by marshals and arrested men. Instead, Nala dragged Chenoa toward the service corridor she'd mapped 2 days earlier. Behind them, she heard Morrison's voice. "Stop those women. " But Swift Bird appeared from the service corridor, rifle in hand.
"This way, quickly. " They fled through the kitchen, past startled cooks and servers, out the back door into the alley. Three horses waited there, held by Diving Hawk's warriors. Nala boosted Chenoa onto the nearest horse, then swung up behind her. Swift Bird mounted another. The third warrior took the last horse.
"The others? " Nala asked, already riding for the gathering place. "Khoa. " They rode hard through Tucson's streets as darkness fell. Behind them, whistles blew and men shouted. But the confusion bought them precious minutes. By the time any organized pursuit could form, they were out of town and vanishing into the desert night.
They rode for 12 hours straight, pushing the horses to their limits. When they finally stopped, it was in a canyon Nala recognized, Echo Valley, where she'd killed Silas Crane just days ago. The bodies had been cleared, but the blood remained, dark stains on red stone. Chenoa slid from the horse and collapsed. Not from injury or exhaustion, though she was both, from the sudden release of tension she'd been holding for months.
Nala knelt beside her, gathered her into her arms. Chenoa shook with silent sobs, her thin body convulsing. "I have you. " Nala whispered. "You're safe. I have you. " "I thought I would die there. " Chenoa managed through her tears.