Above, hidden in the rocks, the Apache waited with inhuman patience. Ethan had seen soldiers who could wait like that, men who'd learned stillness in war, but this was different. This was born into them, taught from childhood, as natural as breathing. He envied them that. Around midmorning, the horses smelled it first.
Smoke tensed beneath him, ears flicking forward, nostrils flaring. Ethan's hand moved to his rifle. They were coming. The sound reached him next, the low rumble of hoofbeats, the creak of leather, the metallic jingle of bits and spurs. It grew louder, echoing off the canyon walls, multiplying until it sounded like an army instead of 20 men.
Ethan stood his ground. The militia appeared at the southern end of the pass, a dark mass of riders moving in loose formation. They saw him immediately. The column slowed, then stopped 50 yards out. Vance rode to the front.
He sat his horse like a statue, staring at Ethan across the distance. For a long moment, neither man moved. Then Vance urged his horse forward, slow and deliberate, until he was 30 yards away. "Well." Vance said, his voice calm and almost amused.
"This is unexpected." Ethan said nothing. "I have to admit, Cross, I'm impressed. Most men would have kept running, but here you are, standing in the middle of nowhere looking like you've got something to say." Vance tilted his head.
"So say it." "You murdered my family." Ethan said, his voice flat and cold. "You burned them alive and called it progress. And now you're going to answer for it."
Vance smiled. "That's quite an accusation. You have proof?" "I don't need proof. I know."
"Knowledge without evidence is just paranoia, Cross, and paranoia gets men killed." Vance's hand rested casually on his pistol. "This is your last chance. Walk away. Disappear.
I'll even forget you were here. Or stay and die where you stand. Your choice." Ethan raised his rifle, sighting down the barrel at Vance's chest. ""I'm done running."" ""Then you're done breathing."" Vance's hand dropped to his pistol. Ethan fired.
The shot went wide, intentionally. The bullet cracked past Vance's head, close enough to make him flinch, and in that moment, everything exploded. The Apache opened fire from both sides of the pass, a thunderous barrage that turned the canyon into chaos. Militiamen screamed. Horses reared and bolted.
Bodies fell. The high walls amplified every sound, every shot echoing and re-echoing until it was impossible to tell how many guns were firing. Ethan dove for cover behind a boulder, working the lever on his Winchester, firing up at the riders. He saw Vance wheeling his horse, shouting orders that no one could hear over the gunfire. The militia tried to form up, tried to return fire, but they couldn't see their targets.
The Apache were firing from behind rocks, from shadows, appearing just long enough to shoot and then vanishing again. It was a slaughter. A rider charged straight at Ethan, pistol raised, face twisted with rage. Ethan shot him out of the saddle at 10 yards. Another came from the left.