Thanks to the oak poultice and the rest, the dark swelling had subsided, and the raw tear marks were beginning to scab over cleanly. Using a sturdy, shoulder-high oak branch Caleb had carved into a walking crutch, Goyah was able to stand and hobble short distances inside the cave.
They were preparing to part ways.
Caleb was tightening the girth strap on Rust’s saddle, while Goyah sat on a flat stone, wrapping his healed leg in fresh leather strips he had cut from his buckskin shirt.
Suddenly, Rust’s head snapped up, his ears pinning back flat against his neck. He let out a low, nervous snort, stamping his front hoof against the rock floor.
Caleb froze, his hand remaining on the leather saddle girth.
Outside in the quiet forest, fifty yards down the slope, came the distinct, rhythmic crunch of iron horseshoes breaking through frozen snow crust.
Not one horse. Four or five.
Caleb instinctively drew his Colt revolver, stepping behind the rock overhang, peering cautiously through the thick, snow-draped branches of a blue spruce.
Riding single file through the clearing below were five men.
They were white men, dressed in filthy wool coats, greasy felt hats, and leather chaps. Every man carried a repeating rifle slung across his saddle horn, and their horses were lean, dirty, and exhausted.
These were not territorial cavalry, nor were they honest ranchers looking for lost strays. These were scalphunters—ruthless, desperate men who roamed the high country hunting native bands for the cash bounties offered by regional towns, or preying on lonely travelers along the isolated mountain passes.
Leading the group was a broad, heavy-set man riding a sorrel gelding. He had a thick, greasy black beard and a deep, angry scar across his right cheek.
Caleb’s blood ran cold.
He recognized that scar. He recognized the broad, stooped shoulders and the cruel, bloodshot eyes.
It was Vance—the former volunteer corporal from Major Harlan’s scouting party at Tonto Basin.
Caleb backed away from the ledge, his heart hammering against his ribs like a sledgehammer against steel.
Goyah had seen the movement. He was crouched low against the stone floor, his bone-handled hunting knife drawn, his dark eyes sharp as flint. "Who?" Goyah whispered.
"Five men," Caleb whispered back, his voice tight. "Scalphunters. Deserters from the old volunteer regiment."
Goyah’s face hardened into granite. He recognized the term, and he knew instantly what five armed men riding through these mountains meant for him.
Down in the clearing, the five horses came to a stop right near the fallen ponderosa pine where the bear trap lay empty in the bloody snow.