Choose well, she breathed. She closed her eyes. The chest rose once more, hitched, and then settled. The silence that followed was absolute. Ayanna bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Luke reached out. He placed his hand on Ayanna's shoulder. She did not pull away. She leaned into his touch, turning her face into his good arm. They sat there as the sun crested the canyon wall, illuminating the carnage and the beauty of the morning.
The matriarch was gone. The old world was dead. Luke looked at the rising sun, and he knew Nalin was right. The debt was paid. He was free to go.
He could walk out of this canyon, ride back to his ranch, and forget he had ever known the name Ayanna. But as he felt the warmth of her grief against his side, he knew that was a lie. He was not free. He was bound tighter than he had ever been by ropes. He was bound by the blood on the ground, by the bullet in his shoulder, and by the fierce, terrified love beating in his chest.
The battle was over, but the journey was just beginning. The canyon, once their fortress, now smelled of death. The bodies of the soldiers had been dragged a mile down the trail, left as a grim warning, but the scent of blood and expended powder clung to the red rocks like a second skin. The victory, if it could be called that, was a hollow thing. They had held the ground, but they had revealed their position to the world.
Two days after the battle, the scouts returned with news that turned the blood cold. There is dust to the east, a young boy reported, his voice cracking with exhaustion. A big column, maybe 400 men, and the ranchers in the valley are gathering. We saw smoke signals on the ridges. They are calling for a hunt.
Nalin was dead. The canyon was compromised. The winter was coming. The women gathered in the center of the camp. The circle was smaller now.
There were empty spaces where faces had been just days before. Ayanna stood at the head of the fire, her arm bandaged where a rock splinter had sliced her skin. Luke stood at the periphery, his left arm in a sling, his face pale under the deep tan and grime. We cannot stay, Ayanna said. Her voice was flat, stripped of all illusion.
If we stay, we die. They will bring the mountain guns next time. They will bring the Indian scouts who know how to root us out like badgers. Then we must go to the reservation, Sunny said. She was holding her son tight against her chest.
Her eyes were red from weeping. At least there's food there. At least the shooting stops. There is no food there, Ayanna countered sharply. There is rot.