A cowboy is unexpectedly chosen as a husband by a Native girl, but his dark secret is slowly revealed.

Ethan nodded slowly. "I gave you my word I wouldn't run. A Walker doesn't break his word."

Ayana stood up, motioning for Ethan to follow her back toward the entrance of the lodge. As Ethan stepped out into the cool Arizona night, the vast expanse of desert stars burned like diamonds against the black velvet sky, cold, distant, and indifferent to the fate of the men trapped in the maze of red rocks.

Dawn arrived over the canyon not with warmth, but with a biting, high-desert chill that turned the breath of men and horses into pale ghosts of mist.

Ethan had slept poorly in the small guest wickiup near the chief’s lodge. His bed had been a thick layer of dried brome grass covered by a coarse woolen blanket, but every rustle of dry leaves, every snap of a twig outside, had kept his hand resting near the butt of his Colt .45. He was painfully aware of the four sentries stationed fifty yards away—warriors chosen from the clans of the rejected suitors, men whose glares had been sharp enough to cut leather when the sun set.

When the first pale gray light filtered through the woven branches of his shelter, Ethan rose. He ran his calloused fingers through his tangled hair, buckled his worn gun belt around his hips, and stepped out into the morning air.

The camp was already coming alive. Women were blowing on the embers of the hearth fires, boiling dried cornmeal and roasting strips of cured venison over green mesquite coals. Children, dressed in light buckskin shirts, chased each other along the bank of the bubbling creek, their quiet laughter echoing off the sandstone cliffs. For a moment, the peaceful rhythm of the village seemed so ancient and unbroken that Ethan could almost forget the storm gathering on the horizon.

A quiet snort from behind him broke his reverie.

Ethan turned. Standing twenty paces away, tethered to a low juniper branch, was his red bay pack horse. The animal’s coat was brushed clean of dried sweat, and its split rawhide pack had been neatly patched with tough buckskin thongs. Beside the bay stood Dutch, his gray gelding, munching happily on a bundle of fresh mountain rye.

Standing near the horses, holding Dutch’s lead rope, was Kaelen.

The young Apache warrior looked at Ethan with eyes that held the cold, unyielding chill of an alpine winter. Kaelen’s jaw was set like granite, and his left hand rested firmly upon the pommel of his bone-handled knife.

"Your beast was found near the upper narrows," Kaelen said in halting, heavily accented English. His voice was laced with poison. "A thief’s horse that walks into an Apache camp."

Ethan did not take the bait. He walked slowly toward the animals, keeping his hands open and visible at his sides. He stopped four paces from the young brave, meeting Kaelen’s hostile glare with a steady, unblinking look of his own.

"He ain't a thief's horse," Ethan said evenly. "He's an honest pack animal that got spooked by a diamondback. I’m grateful to whoever brought him in."

Kaelen sneered, taking a step forward until his chest was barely two feet from Ethan’s. "You speak with a quiet tongue, white man. But behind your quiet tongue are the wagons and the blue soldiers. You come into our council. You take the daughter of our chief without striking a blow, without winning a single feather."

"I haven't taken anyone," Ethan replied, his tone remaining flat and calm. "Your chief invited me to stay as a guest. And I told him plainly that I don't claim what I haven't earned."

"You could not earn her in a hundred summers," Kaelen spat. "You are weak. You have no horse that can run down a buffalo. You have no bow that can pierce a bull's hide. You hide behind your iron gun like a woman behind a bush."

The insult was calculated to draw blood. Among frontier men, such words were invariably followed by a punch or the clearing of leather. Ethan felt a hot spike of anger flare in his chest, but he forced it down into the cold pit of his stomach. He looked past Kaelen’s shoulder and saw a dozen warriors watching them from the nearby lodges, waiting to see if the outsider would crumble or strike out foolishly.

"A gun is a tool, just like an arrow," Ethan said softly. "A fool uses it to boast; a man uses it to protect what’s his. If you want to fight me, Kaelen, you’ll have your chance when your chief says so. Until then, you’re just making noise like a bluejay in an empty pine."