Chief Whitehawk stood waiting at the edge of the cottonwood grove, wrapped in his dark buffalo robe, his arms folded across his broad chest. His face was unreadable, but his dark eyes swept over the riders with microscopic scrutiny, noting the powder burns on Ethan’s sleeve, the dust caked into his daughter’s hair, and the stiff, guarded posture of Tahzay.
The riders dismounted. Dutch’s legs were trembling with fatigue, and the Apache ponies hung their heads, their flanks caked in dried gray sweat.
Tahzay stepped forward first. He stopped three paces from the chief, raised his chin, and crossed his arms over his chest. Every suitor in the village leaned in, waiting to hear the warrior denounce the white stranger as a coward or an incompetent drifter.
"The white man speaks straight," Tahzay declared, his voice ringing loud and clear in their native tongue so that every elder, woman, and warrior could hear. "He faced three rifles in the narrow wash. He stood between our horses and the fire. He does not run when the lead flies."
A low murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd. Kaelen, standing near the horse corral with his fists clenched, looked at Tahzay as if his brother had lost his mind.
Whitehawk gave a single, slow nod. He turned his gaze to his daughter. "And the paper, Ayana?"
Ayana stepped to Ethan’s saddle, unbuckled the canvas saddlebag, and drew out the stiff leather dispatch case bearing the eagle seal of the territorial marshal. She placed it into her father’s hands.
"The words of their judges are here, Father," Ayana said in English, deliberately ensuring Ethan could understand her report. "The men who dig the red rocks have bought the signatures of the governors in Prescott. They have sent for two companies of soldiers from Fort Grant. In three suns, their wagons will bring mountain guns to blast the southern gates."
Whitehawk’s jaw hardened until the muscles stood out like thick cords. He carried the dispatch case into the council lodge, gesturing for Ethan, Ayana, and the seven primary clan elders to follow.
Inside the lodge, the fire was built up with dry mesquite roots that burned hot and smokeless. Whitehawk sliced the leather binding of the pouch with his hunting knife and spread the documents across a clean buffalo robe.
Ethan knelt beside the papers, smoothing out the thick parchment with his dirt-stained fingers. As the only man in the room who could read the formal, legalistic English of the territorial courts, the burden fell entirely upon him to interpret the death sentence that had been penned in the capital.
"What do the black marks say, Ethan Walker?" Whitehawk asked, his tone grave as a freshly dug grave.
Ethan traced the bold, flourishing script of the top document.
"This is an eviction decree issued by the District Court of Yavapai County," Ethan explained, his voice tight. "It designates this entire canyon—from the Devil's Ribs down to the Cañada del Oro—as the 'San Carlos Mineral Reserve.' Under the terms of the Mineral Act of May 1872, the territory has granted exclusive development rights to the Prescott Mineral & Territorial Syndicate, represented by Jason Vance."
He picked up the second document, bearing the dark blue seal of the Department of War.
"This is the military requisition order," Ethan continued, his heart sinking as he read the details. "Addressed to Captain Marcus Baylor, Company C and Company F, Fifth United States Cavalry, stationed at Fort Grant. It orders the troops to march out on the morning of April twenty-eighth. That’s three days from now."
An elder with white hair and blind, milky eyes spoke in Apache, his voice trembling with age and sorrow. Ayana translated softly for Ethan: "He asks... how many soldiers?"
"Eighty mounted cavalrymen," Ethan replied. "Armed with Springfield carbines. And they’re bringing two twelve-pounder mountain howitzers on pack mules."
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the lodge.
Even the proudest warriors among the elders knew what twelve-pounder howitzers meant. Those stubby bronze cannons could lob explosive spherical case shot over the highest sandstone rims, raining jagged iron fragments down into the brush shelters, tearing women, children, and horses to pieces without the gunners ever having to expose themselves to rifle fire.
"We cannot fight eighty cavalrymen and two cannons in this basin," Ethan said bluntly, looking Chief Whitehawk in the eye. "If you stay in this amphitheater, they will seal the narrow passes with their Gatling gun and shell this camp from the high bluffs until nothing is left alive."
Kaelen, who had slipped into the back of the lodge despite not being summoned, pushed his way forward, his face flushed with desperate rage.