"For what her people did to them wagon drivers." "Is that it?" Creddy asked, leaning in close. "You here to say sorry?" The woman spat in his face.
Everything stopped. Creddy wiped the spit away slowly, his grin fading into something much worse. "Big mistake." He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against the saloon wall. She didn't scream, didn't beg, just clawed at his hand, her face going red.
Ethan's hands curled into fists. He told himself to walk away. Told himself he'd seen worse and done nothing. Told himself she was probably as guilty as they were. He told himself a lot of things.
Then Creddy pulled a knife. Ethan moved. He crossed the street in long, fast strides, his boots kicking up dust. By the time Creddy registered someone coming, Ethan's fist was already connecting with his jaw. The crack echoed like a gunshot.
Creddy dropped like a sack of grain, the knife clattering onto the boards. Scarnose spun around reaching for his pistol. Ethan was faster. He caught the man's wrist, twisted hard, and drove his knee into the man's stomach. Scarnose folded with a wheezing gasp.
The young one just stood there, eyes wide, hands up. "I wasn't going to "Get lost." Ethan said. The kid ran. Ethan turned to the woman.
She was rubbing her throat, breathing hard, but her eyes were sharp and furious. She didn't say thank you, didn't even nod, just stared at him like she was deciding whether to trust him or stab him. "You should go," Ethan said quietly. "Why did you help me?" Her English was perfect, her accent barely there.
"Doesn't matter. Leave. Now." Behind him, Creddy groaned and started pushing himself up. Ethan didn't look back.
He just waited until the woman finally turned and walked away, disappearing into the maze of alleys behind the saloon. When Ethan turned around, half the street was staring at him. Frank Donner shook his head slowly. "You just bought yourself a whole mess of trouble, Cross." Ethan didn't answer.
He walked back to the store, grabbed the supplies he'd come for, and paid in silence. When he rode out of town an hour later, he could feel eyes on his back the whole way. Mogollon. The ranch sat eight miles outside Prescott, nestled in a shallow valley where the scrub brush gave way to cracked earth and stunted cottonwoods. It wasn't much.
A small house, a barn, a corral. Ethan had built most of it himself, one board at a time, trying to hammer together something that looked like a life. It didn't. He unsaddled his horse, a gray mare named Smoke, and led her into the barn. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Ethan stood in the barn door for a moment, watching the light fade. That's when he saw her. The Apache woman stood near the corral, arms at her sides, waiting. Ethan's hand dropped to the revolver on his hip. "How'd you find me?"
"I followed you." "For eight miles?" "Yes." Ethan exhaled slowly. "You're either brave or stupid."