Ethan's rifle clicked empty. He dropped it, drew his revolver, fired twice. The man fell. The pass was filling with smoke and dust, bodies and panicked horses. Ethan moved fast, staying low, using the chaos for cover.
He grabbed a fallen rifle, checked the load, kept firing. Around him, the Apache pressed the attack, their war cries cutting through the noise like knives. Vance's voice rose above it all, furious and desperate. ""Fall back! Fall back to the mouth of the pass!"" The militia tried to retreat, turning their horses, spurring hard. But the Apache had blocked the southern exit with a rockslide.
Boulders Nashoba's men had positioned days ago, held in place with ropes, waiting for this moment. Now they cut the ropes and the rocks came down in a roaring avalanche, sealing the pass. The militia was trapped. Some of them tried to scale the walls. The Apache shot them down.
Others dismounted and tried to make a stand, using their dead horses for cover. It bought them minutes, nothing more. Ethan moved through the smoke, hunting for Vance. He caught glimpses, gray hair, that damned uniform, always moving, always shouting. The man was a fighter.
Ethan had to give him that. Even trapped and dying, Vance kept his men together, kept them firing. A bullet whined past Ethan's ear. He spun, saw militiaman aiming at him from behind an overturned supply wagon. Ethan fired first.
The man's head snapped back. Then something hit Ethan from behind, a body crashing into him, driving him to the ground. He rolled, twisting, his hand reaching for his knife. A face loomed over him, snarling, a knife of its own descending toward his throat. Ethan caught the man's wrist, muscles straining.
The blade hovered inches from his face. They were locked together, strength against strength, neither giving ground. Then an arrow sprouted from the man's neck. He made a gurgling sound and collapsed sideways. Ethan shoved the body off and looked up.
One of Nashoba's warriors stood on a boulder above, bow in hand, already knocking another arrow. Ethan nodded his thanks. The warrior was already gone, moving to the next target. The fight lasted maybe 20 minutes, maybe less. Time lost meaning in the smoke and blood and noise.
When it finally ended, the silence was almost worse than the gunfire. Ethan stood slowly, ears ringing, breathing hard. Bodies lay everywhere, militiamen, horses, blood soaking into the dirt. The Apache warriors were climbing down from the rocks, checking the dead, finishing the wounded with quick, brutal efficiency. Ethan scanned the carnage, looking for one face.
Vance. He found him near the northern end of the pass, backed against the canyon wall with three surviving militiamen. They'd formed a tight defensive circle, rifles raised, faces pale and desperate. Nashoba appeared beside Ethan, his rifle pointed at Vance. ""It is over. Tell your men to lay down their weapons."" Vance's eyes were wild, but his voice was still steady.
"You think this changes anything? I'm a commissioned officer. Kill me, and the territorial government will send a hundred men, 200. They'll burn every Apache camp from here to the border." "Then they will burn."
Nashoba said calmly. "But you will already be dead." One of the militiamen broke. He threw down his rifle and raised his hands. ""Don't shoot, please. I'm done.