"Look at the perimeter," Ethan whispered, his eyes narrowing into slits.
Chato handed him an old, brass-bound spyglass—a prize taken years earlier from a Mexican officer. Ethan adjusted the focus wheel and pressed the lens to his right eye.
What he saw made his heart sink.
Guarding the approaches to the mining camp were not merely rough-hewn prospectors with squirrel rifles. Patrolling the perimeter were men wearing matched gray canvas dusters, armed with repeating Winchester carbines and double-barreled shotguns. And mounted upon a raised timber platform overlooking the main wash was a piece of military hardware that had no legal business on private range: a gleaming bronze Gatling gun, its multi-barreled cluster mounted on a heavy field carriage.
Near the central mess tent, a large painted sign had been hammered into the red earth. Even through the brass glass, Ethan could read the bold, black lettering clearly:
PRESCOTT MINERAL & TERRITORIAL SYNDICATE
Claim No. 44 — All Trespassers Will Be Shot Without Warning
Authorized by Territorial Marshal J. Vance
"They are not digging for water," Tahzay hissed in Ethan’s ear, his voice trembling with contained rage. "They dig into the bones of our ancestors. They poison the creek below."
"They're digging for silver," Ethan muttered, lowering the brass spyglass, his face grim as iron. "And they didn't come here to prospect. That's a full-scale industrial claim. That Gatling gun alone cost two thousand dollars back east."
Ayana leaned close to him, her obsidian eyes searching his grim face. "Who is the man named Vance?"
Ethan looked at her, his voice heavy with the dread of what was to come. "Jason Vance isn't just a marshal. He owns half the freight lines between Prescott and Tucson, and he controls thirty hired guns who used to ride with border guerrilla bands. If Vance has staked this ground, he’s already bribed the territorial judges. And if your father’s warriors ride down that wash with bows and lances... that bronze gun down there will cut every man of you into pieces before you get within two hundred yards."
Tahzay glared at Ethan, his hand tightening on his bow. "Then what does the great white drover tell us to do? Crawl into our caves and die like old dogs?"
Ethan turned his head and looked Tahzay straight in the eye.
"No," Ethan said coldly. "We don't crawl into caves. But we don't commit suicide, either. We find out where Vance is bringing his powder, and we cut the fuse before he can light it."
The wind howling over the sandstone promontory carried the stench of coal smoke, machine oil, and charred rock. Up on the ledge, Ethan, Ayana, and the Apache scouts remained motionless, flat on their bellies against the sun-baked granite, watching the hive of activity in the canyon below.
Through the brass spyglass, Ethan tracked every movement within the perimeter of Claim No. 44. The syndicate had not merely established an outpost; they had constructed a fortified redoubt designed to withstand a siege. Thick pinon pine logs had been felled, stripped, and sharpened into palisades guarding the western approaches. Sentries in dust-caked canvas dusters stood at fifty-yard intervals, their repeating Winchesters resting in the crooks of their arms, cartridge belts gleaming across their chests.
"Look at the timber shed near the creek," Ethan murmured, passing the spyglass back to Chato. "The one with the double padlock and the red warning flag painted on the door."
Chato adjusted the focus ring, his scarred face tightening as he peered through the scratched lenses. "Black boxes. Many kegs."
"That's Dupont blasting powder," Ethan said, his voice flat with grim familiarity. "Enough powder in that shed to level a mountain. Vance isn't just tunneling for silver veins. He's planning to blast a wagon road straight through the Devil's Ribs. If he opens that pass, freight wagons from Tucson can roll directly through your north valley into Prescott. That cuts four days off the freight run, and it cuts your sanctuary right down the middle."
Tahzay let out a low, guttural hiss of pure fury. His fingers dug into the red sand until his knuckles turned gray. "We ride down tonight. We strike like the mountain hawk. Fire arrows into the tents, cut the throats of the watchmen, drive their horses into the dry washes."
"And what happens when that watchman beside the bronze gun pulls the firing lanyard?" Ethan countered, turning his head to look directly into Tahzay’s blazing eyes. "You ever seen a Gatling gun in action, Tahzay? It don't care how brave you are. It don't care about your ancestors, your songs, or how straight your arrows fly. It throws three hundred lead balls a minute. It'll tear your horses in two and shred your warriors before you can get within thirty paces of their picket fence."