A cowboy is unexpectedly chosen as a husband by a Native girl, but his dark secret is slowly revealed.

Kicking open the heavy oak door of the station house, Ethan burst into the common room.

Standing behind the rough pine bar, holding an open dispatch satchel stuffed with greenbacks and gold certificates, was Silas Burdette.

Burdette had aged into a thick, sharp-eyed predator. His tailored wool frock coat was unbuttoned, revealing an ornate silver-plated Remington revolver holstered at his waist. Beside him stood two burly Texas enforcers, their pistols half-cleared from leather.

"Drop the iron, Silas!" Ethan’s voice cut through the room like an anvil strike.

The two enforcers froze, their eyes darting to the doorway where Ayana stood with an ash bow pulled to full draw, its obsidian arrowhead gleaming two inches from the lead gunman’s eye. Behind her, three Apache warriors stepped through the threshold, carbines leveled at point-blank range.

"Easy, boys," Burdette said, his oily voice steady, though his pale eyes twitched as he recognized the man standing across the sawdust floor. He slowly raised his empty hands away from his hips. "Well, I’ll be damned. Ethan Walker. The dirt-poor Missouri farm boy who couldn't even pay his lease on the Santa Cruz."

"The farm boy knows when a game is crooked, Silas," Ethan said cold, stepping forward, his Colt trained on Burdette’s breastbone. "Your horse herd is gone, your guards are tied up in the wash, and every pound of freight in those wagons belongs to Chief Whitehawk’s camp now."

Burdette offered a thin, sneering smile, leaning back against the bar. "You think you’ve won something here, Walker? You think stealing three wagonloads of pork and beans stops the United States government? I carry a certified decree from the Territorial Supreme Court in Prescott. Governor Safford has already telegraphed the War Department in Washington. Within three weeks, the territorial militia will mobilize two regiments. They’ll scour every canyon in the Tortolitas until your little redskin paradise is nothing but ashes and skulls."

"Governor Safford won't mobilize an infantry company, Silas," a dry, gravelly voice echoed from the doorway.

Burdette’s sneer faltered.

Stepping through the shattered screen door was Joe Hawkins, accompanied by two men in civilian suits wearing the silver badges of the United States Department of Justice. Behind them, his blue cavalry blouse dusted with red dirt but his posture straight as a gun barrel, walked Captain Marcus Baylor.

Burdette’s face went dead white. "Baylor? You... you were relieved of command! You’re facing a board of inquiry at Fort Whipple!"

"General George Crook dissolved the board of inquiry three days ago, Mr. Burdette," Captain Baylor said, stepping into the lamplight, his eyes boring into the corporate enforcer with lethal satisfaction. "It seems my dispatch to Washington did not go through territorial telegraph lines. Joe Hawkins carried a copy of Jason Vance’s private ledger directly to the President’s Indian Peace Commission in Santa Fe."

One of the federal marshals stepped forward, unfurling a thick parchment document bearing the large, gold embossed seal of the Executive Mansion in Washington, D.C.

"By executive order of President Ulysses S. Grant," the federal marshal read aloud, "the territory known as the San Carlos Red Rocks and the Devil’s Ribs is formally designated as the Whitehawk Sovereign Reservation, held in perpetual trust for the Chiricahua Apache people under federal treaty. All private mineral claims, territorial land patents, and mining leases within twenty miles of the sanctuary are hereby revoked and declared null and void. Any attempt to enter or exploit these lands constitutes a federal felony punishable by imprisonment in military penitentiaries."

Baylor looked at Burdette, his lip curling in contempt.

"Jason Vance was arrested in San Francisco yesterday morning by federal authorities for conspiracy to defraud the United States government," Baylor added. "And you, Mr. Burdette, are under arrest for treasonous insurrection, organizing an illegal armed militia, and attempting to ignite an unauthorized Indian war."

Burdette’s hands trembled violently. The silver dispatch case slipped from his fingers, hitting the floorboards with a dull, hollow thud, spilling gold certificates and forged eviction writs across the dust.

Tahzay stepped forward, his hunting knife flashing in the lamplight as he severed Burdette’s gun belt, letting the silver-plated Remington clatter into the sawdust. Two federal marshals snapped heavy iron shackles over Burdette’s wrists, hauling the sputtering syndicate commissioner out into the dawn light where his disarmed mercenaries were already being lined up under the carbines of Company C.

Ethan lowered his Colt, the long, grueling tension of seven weeks finally releasing its hold upon his muscles. He turned to look at Captain Baylor.

The cavalry officer looked back at Ethan, his gray eyes holding profound, unspoken respect. Baylor extended his gloved right hand.