"Then we strike first!" Kaelen cried in broken English, his hand pointing toward the southern mountains. "We take two hundred warriors! We ride to Fort Grant in the night! We burn their stables! We kill the horses before the blue-coats can mount them!"
"And you will hang from the gallows at Tucson before the month is out," Ethan said coldly, turning to face the young brave. "You attack a federal garrison, Kaelen, and you aren't just fighting eighty troopers. You’re inviting the entire United States Army into these mountains. General Crook will bring three regiments down from the north. They’ll hunt your people through every canyon from here to the Rio Grande until there isn't an Apache left drawing breath in Arizona."
"Then what is your great wisdom, cowhand?!" Kaelen snarled, stepping into Ethan’s space. "You tell us we cannot fight in the canyon! You tell us we cannot fight at the fort! Do you tell us to put ropes around our necks and give our women to the miners?!"
"Enough!" Whitehawk slammed his open palm onto the earth. The sound was like a thunderclap, silencing the young warrior instantly.
The chief turned his penetrating gaze back upon Ethan. The firelight flickered in the old man’s dark eyes, reflecting fifty winters of survival, defeat, and iron determination.
"You took our bread, Ethan Walker," Whitehawk said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on Ethan’s arms stand up. "You rode with my daughter into the teeth of the enemy. You brought us the words of their paper. Now tell this council: how does a wolf defeat an enemy who carries the thunder in his hands?"
Ethan picked up the leather-bound ledger that had accompanied the legal decrees—the private account book of the Prescott Syndicate. He flipped through the pages, pointing to columns of figures written in crisp black ink.
"Vance made one critical mistake," Ethan said, a dangerous, cold smile touching the corners of his mouth. "He’s a greedy man, and greedy men always keep two sets of books."
Whitehawk leaned forward. "What books?"
"This isn't an official government project," Ethan revealed, tapping the ledger. "Captain Baylor at Fort Grant thinks he’s riding out on legal orders to clear 'hostile renegades' from public mineral land. But this ledger shows that Jason Vance has transferred twenty-five thousand dollars in syndicate shares to Judge Miller in Prescott, and another five thousand dollars directly into the private bank account of the Territorial Governor."
Ayana’s eyes widened with understanding. "The law is a lie."
"The whole damn thing is an illegal land grab," Ethan confirmed. "The Department of the Interior in Washington hasn't authorized this mineral reserve. If the federal authorities in Washington find out that territorial officials are using United States troops to murder people and seize private claims for a mining syndicate, every man involved will be stripped of his commission and thrown into federal prison for treason and fraud."
"Washington is five thousand miles away," an elder noted bitterly. "Their papers cannot stop the cannon balls from falling on our lodges three suns from now."
"No," Ethan agreed, standing up to his full height within the lodge. "Washington can't stop them in three days. But Captain Baylor can."
Ethan looked around the circle of weathered faces, his voice steady with the conviction of a man who had finally found the narrow path through the burning brush.
"Captain Marcus Baylor is an arrogant officer, but he’s a West Point man," Ethan said. "He cares about his commission and his military honor more than he cares about gold. If he marches into this canyon believing he’s executing a lawful order, he will shell this village without mercy. But if we can put this ledger and these fraudulent decrees into his hands before he fires a single round... he won't attack. He'll arrest Jason Vance on the spot for forging federal orders."
Tahzay looked at Ethan, his brow furrowed with deep skepticism. "And who will carry this paper into Fort Grant? If an Apache rides to the fort, the pickets will shoot him off his horse before he reaches the gate."
Every eye in the lodge turned slowly toward Ethan Walker.
Ethan looked down at his dust-caked boots, then across the fire at Ayana. She was watching him with an expression of quiet, profound faith—a look that made every drop of fear in his body burn away into cold, resolute iron.
"I’ll carry it," Ethan said simply. "I’ll ride into Fort Grant alone. But I need two things from this camp."
Whitehawk rose to his feet, towering over the council fire. "Name them, Ethan Walker."