She remembered running with her husband, the baby in her arms. She remembered the crack of the rifle that took her husband down. She remembered the second shot that had gone through the bundle in her arms. She had not screamed then. She had gone silent.
A silence that had lasted for months. Now, that silence was filled with a cold, directional hatred. "I will never trust them. " Ayanna said, her voice cutting through the quiet of the canyon. "Not the soldiers, not the ranchers. They are all the same.
They are locusts. They eat the world until there is nothing left. " "But we are starving. " "Ayanna. " Sunny said softly. "Better to starve on our feet than to live on our knees. " Ayanna replied. "If a white man ever comes to this canyon, I will kill him myself. I will cut out his heart and leave it for the buzzards. " The women fell silent.
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks toward the stars. High above, on the rim of the canyon, a coyote howled, a long, mournful sound that echoed the emptiness in their bellies. Luke Carver found the tracks 3 days later. He had ridden out at first light, heading toward the broken country where the foothills collided with the mountains. Two more steers were missing.
A rancher could not afford to lose stock, not with the price of beef dropping and the bank in Tucson threatening to call in his loan. The land here was treacherous. It was a maze of dry washes, slot canyons, and ridges of crumbling shale. The sun hammered down, turning the air into a shimmering curtain of heat. Luke reined in his horse and dismounted.
Crouching by a patch of soft sand, he traced the hoof print of a steer, deep and panicked, and over it, the print of an unshod pony. "So Jubal was right. " Luke muttered. He checked the Winchester in his saddle scabbard, loosening it just enough to be ready. He climbed back into the saddle and followed the trail. It led deeper into the badlands, winding through corridors of rock that blocked out the horizon.
The silence was absolute. There were no birds here, no wind, just the sound of his horse's hooves clattering on stone. Luke felt the hair on his arm stand up. He had felt this before, years ago, when he was scouting ahead of a column. It was the feeling of eyes upon him.
He scanned the ridges, his gaze moving methodically from shadow to shadow. He saw nothing but rock and scrub brush. He rode for another hour. The canyon narrowed. The walls grew steeper, closing in like the jaws of a trap.
He should turn back. He knew that. He was one man, alone, but the anger at the theft, the stubborn pride of a man who had lost almost everything else, pushed him forward. He wanted to know who was taking what was his. He rounded a sharp bend in the canyon floor, a massive boulder obscuring the path ahead.
The ambush was not a sound. It was a physical impact. As he passed the boulder, a rope hissed through the air. It settled over his shoulders before he could react. The loop tightened, pinning his arms to his sides.
Luke shouted, spurring his horse, but the rope went taut with a brutal jerk. He was ripped backward out of the saddle. He hit the ground hard, the wind driven from his lungs in a dusty whoosh. He scrambled to his feet, gasping, instinct taking over. He saw movement, figures rushing from the rocks.