She became a ghost. And when the fever came, she let it take her. She did not fight. I'm sorry. "I do not want your pity.
I want you to understand." I will not become a ghost. I will not let my people fade into nothing. I will fight. And I will survive, whatever it takes.
Ethan saw it then. The fire in her. The same fire that had driven him to build the ranch, to keep going even when every part of him wanted to quit. She wasn't broken, she was burning. "You'll make it," he said.
"One way or another." "We will make it," she corrected. "Together." The next morning, they found the first body. It was a militia scout, sprawled face down in a dry wash, an arrow through his back.
The body was still warm. Ethan dismounted, crouching beside it. The arrow was Apache made, the fletching unmistakable. "Your people?" he asked. Ayla studied the arrow, her face grim.
Yes, they are close. And they're hunting Vance's men. Good. They left the body and rode on, faster now. Within an hour they found two more, both militia, both killed in ambush.
The Apache had hit them hard and fast, then vanished. Ethan felt a glimmer of hope. If Ayla's people were already fighting Vance, maybe they'd be willing to finish it. By late afternoon, they reached the edge of Apache territory. The canyon opened into a wide valley, dotted with piñon and juniper.
A small creek running through the center. Smoke rose from somewhere ahead. Cookfires, maybe. Or camp. Ethan reined in.
"We should announce ourselves. Last thing we need is an arrow in the back." Ayla nodded. She dismounted and walked forward, calling out in Apache, her voice carrying across the valley. For a long moment, nothing.
Then figures appeared from the rocks. Four warriors armed with rifles and bows. Their faces painted for war. They moved toward Ayla, speaking rapidly in Apache. Ethan couldn't understand the words, but he caught the tone.
Suspicious. Angry. One of the warriors pointed at Ethan, his voice sharp. Ayla answered, her tone firm, gesturing between Ethan and herself. The argument went on for several minutes.
Ethan sat still on Smoke, hands visible, rifle slung across his back. He didn't reach for it, didn't move, just waited. Finally, one of the warriors, older, with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. He looked Ethan up and down, then spat something at Ayla. She replied, her voice hard as iron.