Beside the hearth, Ayana sat cross-legged, using a smooth river stone to grind dried roots in a shallow stone mortar. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles of exhaustion, her braided hair was tied back with a simple strip of black hide—a mark of mourning for Kaelen—and she wore no turquoise beads or quillwork ornaments.
Ethan tried to push himself up on his right elbow, but a sharp spike of pain in his collarbone drew a quiet grunt from his throat.
Ayana’s head snapped up instantly. The stone pestle stopped in her hand.
She rose and crossed the lodge with swift, silent steps, dropping to her knees beside his bedroll. She did not speak. She reached out, her cool fingertips resting against his forehead, testing his skin.
"The fire has left your blood," she said softly, her voice thick with unspent emotion. "The root of the mountain sunflower has drawn out the black poison."
Ethan looked into her tired, beautiful face, his heart beating with a slow, powerful warmth that had nothing to do with fever. "How long was I out?"
"Four suns," she replied, picking up a clay bowl of warm broth brewed from venison and wild leeks, holding it carefully to his parched lips. "The blue-coat captain left six wagons of corn and flour at the southern gate before his troopers rode back to the fort. He took Thorpe and the miners in chains. Cañada del Oro is silent once more."
Ethan drank the broth slowly, feeling the hot, savory liquid restore the strength to his hollow stomach. He leaned his head back against the elk hides, his eyes wandering to the black ribbon tied in her hair.
"Kaelen?" Ethan asked quietly.
Ayana looked down at the stone floor, her throat tightening. "We carried him to the high ledges of the east, where the morning sun touches the red stone first. My father sang the death song of four generations. He died a war leader, Ethan. His name will be spoken around our fires as long as these cliffs stand."
A heavy silence settled in the lodge, broken only by the crackle of the mesquite embers. Ethan stared at the roof poles, feeling the bitter ache of survivor's guilt that every man who lives through combat carries in his soul.
"He died because I couldn't steady my rifle," Ethan said, his voice flat with self-reproach. "If that sniper hadn't clipped my shoulder, I would have dropped Thorpe before he ever touched the fuse. Kaelen died doing my job."
Ayana leaned forward, her hand coming down firmly upon his uninjured right forearm. Her grip was tight, her obsidian eyes boring into his with an intensity that brooked no self-pity.
"Do not insult his spirit with such thoughts, Ethan Walker," she said, her voice fierce and unyielding. "Kaelen did not run to that fuse for you. He did not run to that fuse for the blue-coats. He ran because his pride had blinded him to what was sacred, and in that final breath, his eyes opened. He saved the mothers and the children of his clan. If you had shot Thorpe from the high rim, Kaelen would have lived in the shadow of his own bitterness. Now he walks with the eagles, unburdened by shame."
Ethan looked at her, seeing the ancient, practical wisdom of a people who had lived with tragedy and death since the dawn of time. He let out a long breath, nodding slowly.
The entrance flap of the lodge was pushed aside, and Chief Whitehawk stepped inside.
The old chief had aged in the five days of battle and mourning. The lines around his mouth were deeper, carved like gullies in red clay, and his stride was slower, leaning slightly upon a polished cedar walking staff. But his eyes, when they fell upon the conscious cowboy, held a warmth that was almost paternal.
"The white drover returns from the land of the shadows," Whitehawk said in English, walking slowly to the fire and sitting heavily upon his buffalo robe.
"Takes more than a stray lead ball to kill an Arizona cowhand, Chief," Ethan managed a weak grin. "Though your daughter’s medicine herbs did most of the heavy lifting."
Whitehawk gave a low, appreciative rumble in his chest. He pulled out his carved stone pipe, filling it with wild tobacco, but he did not light it. He held it between his scarred hands, looking across the hearth at the young man who had walked into his camp chasing a frightened pack horse seven days earlier.
"The soldiers are gone," Whitehawk said. "The iron serpent is broken in the wash. But out on the open flats, twenty steers wait in a box canyon. Their grass is growing dry, Ethan Walker. Their water seep is turning to mud."