"I am aware of that," Baylor replied, walking to the wall where a large topographical map of the Arizona Territory was pinned. "How many men does Vance have at Claim Forty-Four?"
"Thirty hired guns under Ben Thorpe," Ethan replied promptly. "Seasoned border ruffians armed with repeating Winchesters. And they have a bronze Gatling gun mounted on a timber platform overlooking the main wash."
Baylor frowned, tapping the map with his knuckles. "A Gatling? A private company with automatic ordnance?"
"Mounted on a field carriage," Ethan nodded. "And they have enough Dupont blasting powder in a timber magazine to blow the Devil's Ribs into gravel. If Thorpe learns that Vance has been arrested, he won't wait for legal orders. He'll blow the pass, fortify the inner canyon, and start shooting anything that moves."
"Then we have forty-eight hours before news of Vance’s arrest reaches the hills," Baylor said, his eyes scanning the route along the San Pedro River. "Company C will mount at dawn. We’ll take forty troopers, two mountain howitzers, and two wagons."
"Too slow, Captain," Ethan interrupted, shaking his head. "Artillery wagons can't move faster than fifteen miles a day through that broken country. If Thorpe sees a cavalry column marching up the wash with blue guidons flying, he'll turn that Gatling gun on your advance guard before you can unlimber your cannons."
Baylor turned, crossing his arms. "Then what do you propose, drover?"
"You give me your official military writ of protective custody," Ethan said, his voice hard and clear. "A legal order signed by your hand, placing the San Carlos Red Rocks under immediate federal military protection pending an investigation by the Department of the Interior. Let me ride ahead through the high trails with your fastest scout. When the Apache chiefs see that the army is coming as a shield, not an executioner, they'll hold their warriors back. We bottle Thorpe’s men up in their camp from the high bluffs, and when your cavalry arrives, they’ll surrender without a battle."
Baylor studied Ethan’s dust-streaked face for a long, calculating minute.
"You're asking me to trust the safety of a federal operation to a civilian cowhand who walked into my post three hours ago," Baylor noted.
"I’m asking you to trust a man who rode over the Razor Ridge of the Tortolitas to stop an innocent village from being massacred," Ethan answered simply. "And I’m asking you to prevent a bloodbath that will haunt this territory for fifty years."
Baylor walked back to his desk, pulled a fresh sheet of official War Department vellum from the drawer, dipped his steel-nibbed pen into black ink, and began to write.
The sun was climbing toward noon when Ethan rode Dutch out of the dense mesquite thicket where Ayana had waited in hiding.
The gray gelding was visibly refreshed, having drunk deeply from the spring seep in the wash, while Ayana sat perched upon a flat boulder, her spotted pony’s reins looped over her wrist. Her short ash bow lay across her knees, her eyes fixed on the northern horizon.
When Ethan crested the knoll, she stood up instantly, her body tense, her dark eyes searching his face for the verdict of the white soldiers' post.
"You walk without chains," she said, her voice quiet but ringing with immense relief.
Ethan reined Dutch in beside her boulder, leaning on his saddle horn with a tired, genuine smile—the first true smile that had crossed his face since his bay horse had bolted five days ago. He pulled a thick parchment envelope from inside his coat, showing her the dark red wax seal stamped with the eagle of the United States Cavalry.
"Vance is locked in the post guardhouse at Fort Grant," Ethan said. "Captain Baylor recognized the fraud. The soldiers are mounting at dawn, but they aren't coming to burn your father’s lodges. They're coming to arrest Thorpe’s gunmen and seize the syndicate’s equipment under federal authority."
Ayana reached out, her fingertips touching the cold wax seal of the envelope. "A paper to heal what the other paper broke."
"That's right," Ethan said, looking down into her obsidian eyes. "Baylor gave me his official writ. We have forty-eight hours to get this document to Chief Whitehawk before the cavalry reaches the outer washes. If your father displays this seal from the canyon bluffs, the soldiers won't fire a single shot."
A shadow crossed Ayana’s features, tempering her relief. "Forty-eight hours is a long time in the red rocks, Ethan. Ben Thorpe is not a man who waits for orders. This morning, while you were inside the fort, I saw smoke rising from the southern ridges—black smoke, heavy with burning greasewood."