It was the distant, undeniable sound of a high-powered rifle shot.

Eli leaped to his feet, his hand slamming down onto his revolver grip.

In the yard, every single one of the twenty-five women froze in place. The scrub boards stopped splashing; the sickles stopped cutting; the children were pulled instantly into the shadows of the barn without a single sound being uttered.

A second shot echoed off the granite walls of Black Tooth Ridge.

Eli ran to the corner of his house, pulled his brass spyglass from his coat pocket, and raised it to his right eye, focusing the lens on the southern wagon track two miles away.

Through the circle of glass, he saw a cloud of yellow dust rising into the clear evening sky.

Riding hard out of the dust were four mounted men.

They wore broad-brimmed felt hats, heavy leather chaps, and rode lean, fast quarter horses. Across their saddles lay long-barreled repeating rifles. They were moving at a fast canter, following the trail of broken mesquite branches and crushed grass that led straight to Eli’s front gate.

Eli lowered the spyglass, his face turning hard as iron.

"Scalp-hunters," he spat into the dirt.

Ketan appeared beside Eli at the corner of the house so silently he didn't even hear her approach.

She looked at the dust cloud rising on the southern horizon, her jaw tightening until the muscles stood out like iron bands along her throat.

"Miller," she rasped, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred.

Eli turned to her. "You know them?"

"Texans," Ketan said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Trackers. They followed us from the Dragoon Mountains. They kill the survivors for the territorial bounty. Fifty dollars for a woman's scalp. Twenty-five for a child."

Eli felt a cold, violent rage ignite in the pit of his stomach—a rage he hadn't felt in three long years.

"Get everyone inside the barn," Eli ordered, his voice flat, low, and terrifyingly calm. "Bar the doors from the inside. Do not open them for anyone except me."

Ketan looked at him, her dark eyes locking onto his. "You fight four men alone?"

"This is my land," Eli said, pulling his Winchester rifle from the porch rack and levering a cartridge into the iron chamber with a loud, metallic CLACK. "And those men are trespassing."

Ketan stared at him for a second, then gave him a single, hard nod. She turned and vanished into the shadows of the barn, pulling the heavy oak doors shut behind her. The iron latch dropped into place with a heavy THUD.

Eli walked out to the middle of the yard, stopping ten feet behind his main boundary fence.

He didn't take cover behind the cabin wall. He stood out in the wide open, his boots planted firm in the red dirt, his Winchester resting across his chest, his revolver strapped tight to his right thigh.

The four riders came galloping up the trail, pulling their lathered horses to a harsh, sliding halt twenty yards outside the fence line.

Dust billowed around them, smelling of sweat, hot leather, and horse lather.

The leader of the group was a large, heavy-set man with a thick, grease-stained red beard, wearing a filthy buckskin coat trimmed with brass buttons. He wore a low-slung Colt revolver on each hip, and a heavy Sharps buffalo rifle rested in the leather scabbard beside his right stirrup. His eyes were small, red-rimmed, and bloodshot, sweeping across Eli's yard with a greedy, predatory intensity.

"Afternoon, friend!" the red-bearded man called out, his voice loud, booming, and fake-jovial. He tipped his dirty hat with a finger. "Name's Vance Miller. Me and my boys are trailing a herd of stray stock that broke off from our outfit south of the river."

Eli didn't move an inch. He didn't smile. He didn't tip his hat.

"No stray cattle on this land, Miller," Eli said, his raspy voice carrying clearly across the quiet fence line. "You're off your range."

Miller’s small eyes narrowed, his red beard twitching as he looked past Eli toward the freshly swept barn floor and the small, dark plume of smoke rising from the stone pit behind the roof.

"Ain't talking about cattle, mister," Miller sneered, dropping the friendly tone entirely. His hand drifted casually toward the grip of his right revolver. "We're tracking a band of red hostiles that slaughtered a settlement down in the valley. Twenty-five of 'em. The sign leads straight through your south fence."

"The sign ends here," Eli said flatly.

Miller grinned—a cruel, yellow-toothed smile that made Eli’s stomach turn.

"Now see here, rancher," Miller said, leaning forward over his saddle horn. "The territory pays good money for red hide. Five hundred dollars for the bunch of 'em. You hand 'em over, and we'll give you a fifty-dollar cut for your trouble. You keep your mouth shut, we keep our guns quiet, and everybody goes home rich."

Eli looked Miller straight in his bloodshot eyes.

"You've got five seconds to turn those horses around and ride back south," Eli said, his voice dropping into a register so cold and hard it sounded like iron dragging across granite.

The three riders behind Miller shifted uncomfortably in their saddles, their hands moving toward their scabbards.

"You defending red vermin, homesteader?" Miller spat, his face flushing dark purple with sudden anger. "You know what the law says about harboring hostiles? I can hang you from your own barn rafter and take your land by right of territorial claim!"

"One," Eli counted softly.

"You damned fool!" Miller roared, his right hand flashing downward to yank his Colt from its leather holster.

Before Miller’s revolver could even clear the leather, Eli brought the Winchester to his shoulder with lightning speed.

A cloud of white gunsmoke erupted from the muzzle of Eli’s rifle.

The heavy lead bullet struck the dirt eighteen inches in front of Miller’s horse’s hooves, throwing up a shower of sharp granite stones and red clay.

The horse screamed, rearing up on its hind legs in wild panic. Miller lost his stirrups, flailing his arms wildly as he tried to stay in the saddle, his revolver flying out of his hand and clattering into the dry brush outside the fence.

Eli levered another round into the chamber and fired a second shot, the bullet ripping straight through the brim of the second rider's felt hat, tearing it off his head and sending it flying into the dirt behind him.