The barn was still standing, untouched by the fire. Beyond it, the militia had gathered near the remains of the house, watching it burn. Most of them had dismounted, rifles lowered, talking among themselves. They looked tired, satisfied. Vance stood apart from the others, staring at the flames with his arms crossed.
Ethan counted. 18 men still standing. Five were dead or wounded, scattered across the property. Not good odds, but better than 23. He turned to Ayla, kept his voice barely above a whisper.
"We circle around the barn, come up on their flank. I'll draw their fire. You take the ones on the right." "That is a terrible plan." "You have a better one?"
She didn't answer. Ethan crawled out of the tunnel, staying low, moving through the scrub brush toward the barn. Ayla followed, silent as a shadow. They reached the corner of the building and paused, catching their breath. The militia was still distracted, focused on the burning house.
Ethan checked his rifle. Six rounds. He had two more rifles slung across his back, each loaded. Ayla carried one rifle and a revolver. It would have to be enough.
Ethan met her eyes. She nodded, her face set and grim. Then he stepped around the corner and opened fire. The first shot dropped a man on the far left. The second hit another in the leg, sending him sprawling.
The third went wide, but it didn't matter. The militia was already scattering, diving for cover, shouting in confusion. Ethan moved fast, dropping the empty rifle and pulling up the second one. He fired three more shots in quick succession, forcing the militia to stay down, keeping them pinned. Ayla appeared on the right, her rifle barking sharp and precise.
She hit a man trying to flank them, then another scrambling for his horse. But the militia was recovering fast. Return fire erupted, bullets slamming into the barn, splintering wood, kicking up dirt. Ethan ducked behind a water trough as a round whined past his head. "There!" someone shouted.
"Behind the barn!" Vance's voice cut through the chaos, cold and clear. "Converge on the barn. Kill them both." The militia surged forward, a dozen men advancing in a ragged line.
Ethan fired twice more, but there were too many. He pulled back, yanking Ayla with him. "The horses," he said. "We need the horses." They sprinted toward the corral, where Smoke and two other horses were tied.
Bullets chased them, cracking through the air. One round grazed Ethan's arm, a hot line of pain that he ignored. He reached the corral, vaulted the fence, and cut Smoke's tether with his knife. Ayla was already on one of the other horses, a big roan that danced nervously under her. Ethan swung onto Smoke's back, no saddle, just raw muscle and desperation.
"Ride!" he shouted. They exploded out of the corral, the horses stretching into a full gallop. The militia fired after them, but the range was growing, the shots falling short. Ethan leaned low over Smoke's neck, urging her faster, the wind tearing at his face. Behind them, Vance's voice roared in fury.