"We do what we do best," Elias said, a grim smile forming. "We become ghosts. We lead them on a chase so exhausting they forget what they were hunting for in the first place."
General Vance was a methodical man, but he was not prepared for the phantom vanguard. As the Cavalry column entered the foothills, they began to experience a series of maddening setbacks.
It started with their scouts. Two seasoned trackers were found tied to a cactus, unharmed but stripped of their boots and weapons, with a single black feather left on their chests—Elu’s calling card. Then, the water supplies. Catori had spent days riding ahead of the army, finding every natural spring and water hole on their path and souring them with a potent, non-lethal, but violently purgative root. The troopers were forced into a crawling pace, sick and dehydrated.
When they finally neared the canyon, they found it empty. The tribe had vanished like smoke.
Frustrated, General Vance ordered his men to make camp and sent out smaller detachments to pick up the trail. But the detachments were met by Tala and Elias. Not in open combat, but in terrifying, lightning-fast hit-and-run strikes. A volley of rifle fire would tear through a supply cart, scattering horses, and before the troopers could return fire, the attackers were gone, swallowed by the rocky terrain.
However, among Vance’s men was a civilian tracker named Silas Thorne. He was Elias’s older brother, a man who had chosen the badge and the bounty while Elias had chosen the wandering trail. Silas knew the way Elias thought. He knew the rhythm of his tactics.
One evening, as Elias was scouting a ridgeline, a voice drifted up from the shadows.
"Still playing the hero for lost causes, Eli?"
Elias froze, his hand dropping to the Colt at his hip. He peered over the rocks. Standing in the moonlight, smoking a thin cigar, was Silas. He held no weapon drawn, but his presence was more dangerous than a loaded rifle.
"Silas," Elias breathed. "You're a long way from the Mojave."
"General Vance pays well," Silas replied, stepping into the open. "And he's furious. You've made a fool of him, Eli. But the game is over. He's calling for artillery from the north. When it gets here, he won't just chase your new friends; he'll level every mountain in this territory."
Elias narrowed his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're my brother," Silas said, dropping the cigar and crushing it under his boot. "Give me the Gatling gun. Turn yourself in. Vance wants a hanging, and you fit the bill. I can negotiate amnesty for the tribe if you take the fall."
Elias looked back toward the deep mountains where his wives and his people were hiding. He thought of Tala’s fire, Catori’s gentle strength, and Elu’s free spirit. He had finally found something worth bleeding for, something worth dying for.
"I'm not a martyr, Silas," Elias said softly. "And I don't make deals with men who steal land. You tell General Vance that if he brings his artillery, we won't be aiming for his soldiers anymore. We'll be aiming for him."
Silas returned to the Cavalry camp with Elias's message. General Vance, enraged by the defiance, prepared for a full-scale assault into the mountains. But Silas, knowing the lethality of his brother, convinced the General to try one last parley. They arranged a meeting at Blood Rock, a neutral mesa halfway between the army's position and the deep mountains.
Elias rode to the mesa not as a prisoner, but as a warlord. He was flanked by Tala, Catori, and Elu. They wore their finest leathers, adorned with the teeth and claws of the beasts they had slain. They looked like ancient deities descending from the peaks.