Vance pulled his horse up, squinting down at the disturbed drifts. "Hold up," Vance shouted, his voice coarse and gravelly in the quiet forest.
The four men behind him reined in their horses.
Vance dismounted, his heavy boots crunching through the crust. He walked over to the open bear trap, kicking the rusted iron jaw with the toe of his boot. He knelt, scooping up a handful of dark, frozen snow.
"Fresh blood," Vance declared, standing up and wiping his gloved hand on his trousers. "Trapped a big one. But somebody pried the jaws open and dragged him off."
He looked up at the slope, his dark, greedy eyes tracing the canvas drag marks that Caleb had made four days ago—marks that had been partially covered by fresh snow, but were still visible to a trained tracker.
"He ain't far," Vance said with a cruel, yellow-toothed grin. "And whoever helped him has got a horse and supplies. Mount up."
Inside the cave, Caleb looked at Goyah.
Goyah could not run. Even with the oak crutch, he could not climb the steep, icy ridge behind the cave without being overtaken in five minutes. And Caleb would not leave him.
The old ghost of Tonto Basin stood before Caleb once again.
Three years ago, he had hesitated. He had watched Vance raise a gun, and he had done nothing.
Caleb pulled the hammer back on his Colt revolver with a loud, firm CLICK. He looked Goyah squarely in the eyes, offering a single, decisive nod.
"Stay back in the shadow," Caleb said softly. "I'm fixing an old debt."
Caleb stepped out from the shelter of the rock overhang, walking twenty paces down the slope until he stood in the open on a high granite ledge, forty yards directly above the five riders.
"That's far enough, Vance!" Caleb shouted, his voice booming through the quiet forest like a cannon shot.
The five horses pulled up short, dancing nervously in the deep snow.
Vance’s hand dropped instantly to his rifle, his head snapping up to look at the ledge. He squinted through the bright sunlight, staring at the tall man standing above him in the sheepskin coat.
It took Vance three seconds to recognize the face.
"Well, well, well," Vance drawled, a dark, mocking laugh bubbling up from his throat. "If it ain't Caleb Morrison. The soft-hearted scout who cried over the burning brush lodges at Tonto."
The four men beside Vance chuckled, their hands resting casually on their weapons.