Keep moving. They emerged into the second chamber. This one was smaller, maybe 50 ft across, but the ceiling was high and running through it was an underground stream, 4 ft deep, water so cold it made Jesse's teeth ache just looking at it. We have to cross, Marcus said. Hold your rifle high.
Current's strong. They waded in. The cold hit like a physical blow. Jesse gasped despite himself. The water pushed at his legs trying to sweep him downstream into the dark.
He planted his feet carefully, testing each step before committing his weight. Marcus slipped, went under briefly, came up sputtering. Jesse grabbed him, steadied him, and they pushed on. On the far side, shivering and dripping, Marcus paused. Jesse, can I ask you something?
Now? Yeah, now, because if we die in the next hour, I want to know. Marcus looked at Jesse in the lantern light, his young face suddenly older. You were cavalry. I can tell from the way you move, the way you check corners.
You killed Apache during the war, didn't you? Jesse was quiet for a long time, then Yes. Do you regret it? Every day. But regret doesn't bring back the dead.
Only action can balance blood. That's why I'm here. Marcus nodded slowly. My brother used to say something similar. Before Crane killed him.
They moved on. The third chamber brought them directly beneath the ranch. They could hear voices above, muffled by layers of wood and earth. The lantern showed a ladder, iron rungs bolted to the stone, climbing 20 ft to a wooden trapdoor. Marcus climbed first.
At the top, he pressed his ear to the trapdoor, listening. Then he tried the handle. Locked from above. Jesse climbed up beside him, drew his knife and worked the blade into the crack between door and frame. The lock was simple, just a sliding bolt.
It took 5 minutes of careful work, and Jesse's hands were bleeding by the time he felt the bolt slide free. They pushed the trapdoor open an inch. Darkness above. The smell of earth and potatoes. They were in a root cellar.
Jesse and Marcus climbed through and stood in the darkness, letting their eyes adjust. Voices filtered down from above. Guards talking. Crane says double the watch tonight. Thinks someone might try something.
Let them try. We got 15 guns in a canyon. Nobody's getting in. The voices moved away. Jesse and Marcus crept up the cellar stairs.
At the top, Jesse pressed his eye to a crack in the door. He could see the prisoner shed outside, maybe 40 ft away. Small building, rough lumber, bars on the single window. Two guards stood outside, one young, maybe 17, the other older, maybe 30. Both armed with rifles.
The young guard was Apache, Swift Bird probably. Even from here, Jesse could see the conflict in the boy's posture. The way he held himself like a soldier, but couldn't quite kill the uncertainty in his eyes. Jesse turned to Marcus. I'll take the left guard.
You take Swift Bird. Quiet. No shooting unless we have to. They slipped out of the cellar through a different door, one that opened behind the prisoner shed. Circled around in the darkness.
The moon had set. Good. Darkness was their ally now. Jesse approached from behind. The older guard never heard him.
Jesse's arm went around the man's throat, cutting off his air and the blood to his brain simultaneously. The guard struggled for maybe 8 seconds, then went limp. Not dead, just unconscious. Jesse lowered him silently to the ground. Marcus moved on Swift Bird, but Marcus was nervous, inexperienced.
He fumbled his approach. Swift Bird started to turn, started to raise his rifle, started to yell. Jesse's knife flew. It was instinct, pure reflex from 20 years of staying alive. The blade took Swift Bird in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping the rifle from his hands.
The boy gasped, but didn't scream. Jesse was on him in two steps, hand over his mouth. Easy, Jesse whispered in Apache, a language he'd learned during the war. Easy, young warrior. We're not here to hurt you.
Swift Bird's eyes were wide with shock and pain, but he didn't fight. Maybe because of the knife in his shoulder. Maybe because something in Jesse's voice reached through the years of Crane's conditioning. We're taking the Black Feather sisters, Jesse said, still in Apache. You can raise the alarm or you can let us pass.
Your choice, but know this. Your real family is looking for you. A woman named Diving Hawk, your aunt. She never stopped searching. Something flickered in Swift Bird's eyes.
Confusion. Memory trying to surface through the wall Crane had built around it. Marcus appeared with rope. They tied Swift Bird quickly, but not cruelly, gagged him with cloth. The boy watched them with those confused eyes as they carried him into the prisoner shed.
Inside, two cots, two young women chained to the wall. The older one, maybe 20, looked like Nala. Same high cheekbones, same dark eyes. But where Nala's face was hard with anger, this woman's face was gentle even in fear. Keona.
The younger one was maybe 12, small small and thin, her hair cut short and ragged. She looked at Jesse and Marcus with eyes that held terror, but also a fierce refusal to break. Yazi. Who are you? Keona asked, her voice weak with fever.
Jesse drew his bolt cutters and began working on her chains. Friends of your sister Nala. We're getting you out. Yazi's eyes went huge. Nala did not know.
In the name of them. Nala. She's alive? Crane said she was dead. She's very much alive and very angry.
The chain broke. Jesse moved to Yazi. Can you walk? I can run if I have to. Keona tried to stand.
Her left leg gave out. Jesse saw the infected wound, recognized the smell of rot. She'd been whipped and the wounds had festered. I'll carry her, Marcus said. They exited the shed, started back toward the cellar.