Whitehawk studied the intruder. The old chief’s gaze was heavy, cold, and ancient, like the sandstone monoliths framing the canyon. He had spent fifty years reading men the way a tracker reads trampled grass. He looked at Ethan’s boots—cracked across the uppers, the heels worn down almost to the welt from miles of walking over flint and caliche. He looked at the cowboy’s faded blue shirt, which had been mended along the sleeve seams with coarse, uneven hemp thread. He saw no shiny brass cavalry buttons, no surveyor’s transit, no picks or gold pans strapped to his waist.
And, most crucially, Whitehawk noted the stranger’s hands. A guilty man would have clutched his pistol. A foolish soldier would have reached for his carbine. This stranger had uncovered his head and held his bare hands open to the sky.
Whitehawk lowered his arm and made a single, downward motion with his wrist.
It was an order: Let him come down.
The two braves on the switchback stepped aside, gesturing with the tips of their hunting knives toward the sandy arena floor. Ethan understood the command without needing an interpreter. He placed his Stetson back on his head, pulled the brim low over his brow, and began the descent.
Every step down the narrow path felt like walking along the edge of a bottomless precipice. He could smell the cedar smoke now, heavy and sweet, mingling with the aroma of roasted venison and parched corn. When his boots touched the flat red sand of the central basin, the Apache crowd parted before him like water around the prow of a canoe, forming two dense walls of watchful, silent spectators. Women pulled their small children behind their skirts; old men watched him with faces as expressionless as flint; the young suitors who had spent the afternoon displaying their valor glared at him with undisguised contempt.
Ethan did not swagger, nor did he cower. He kept his stride steady, his arms loose at his sides, until he reached the outer rim of the clearing, stopping beneath the cool, spreading boughs of a massive cottonwood tree. There, he took his stance with his back against the rough bark, removing his hat once more, resolved to remain motionless until he was either permitted to depart or struck down.
The interruption subsided, but the atmosphere within the canyon had suffered a violent rupture. The sacred quietude of the choosing ceremony was gone, replaced by an electric, volatile tension.
The remaining four suitors who had not yet presented themselves stepped forward into the arena, but their demonstrations were poisoned by the presence of the white stranger. One young man from the northern mountain bands threw his hunting spear at a distant post, but his grip was rigid with distraction; the shaft struck the wood at an angle and fell into the dirt. Another warrior offered a bundle of prime beaver pelts, laying them before Chief Whitehawk's platform, but his eyes kept darting toward the edge of the cottonwood grove, his fingers twitching toward his knife hilt.
Ayana sat upon her mountain lion bench, watching each man with the same detached, penetrating calm she had maintained since the morning star had faded. She offered each warrior a respectful incline of her chin, and then, without a shred of hesitation, she shook her head.
No. No. No.
A low rumble of discontent rose from the ranks of the elders. Over one hundred of the finest young men in the territory had laid their achievements at her feet, and every single one had been cast aside. Whispers traveled through the crowd like wind through dry grama grass. Was the daughter of Whitehawk cursed by a restless spirit? Did she intend to mock the honor of every clan in the mountains?
The sun touched the sharp western rim of the sandstone bluffs. The blazing orange light vanished, plunged beneath the horizon, and a sudden, chilly twilight flooded the valley, painting the sandstone walls in bruised shades of violet, plum, and deep rust.
Chief Whitehawk placed his hands upon his knees, preparing to rise and declare the ceremony ended without a match. The gathering would disband in bitter disappointment, alliances would remain unsealed, and the pride of many clans would fester into resentment.
Before the chief could push himself up, Ayana stood.
The rustle of her buckskin dress was the only sound in the world. The entire valley went breathlessly still. The whispers evaporated; the crackle of the nearest cooking fire seemed to drop to a muted hum.