Sarah felt a deep, overwhelming peace settle into her heart.
She looked at her son, sleeping peacefully beneath the red eagle feather and the steady ticking of his father’s silver pocket watch. She had lost her home; she had lost her place among her own kin; she had fled through the desert with nothing but dirt and despair.
Yet here, in the heart of the wild Sierra Bonita, surrounded by the people her own world called savages, she had found something stronger than the law of towns: she had found family, honor, and an unbreakable shield of love.
Two months drifted past like dry cottonwood fluff floating down the mountain stream, and the high summer slowly began to yield to the crisp, golden days of early autumn.
The leaves of the mountain willows along the creek turned the color of hammered brass, and at night, a thin crust of ice began to form on the edges of the water buckets. The herds of bighorn sheep moved down from the highest granite peaks into the timbered draws, and the Bedonkohe women spent every daylight hour drying venison, roasting mescal hearts in deep stone pits, and sewing thick buffalo-robe sleeping sacks for the coming snows.
Sarah flourished in the mountain life. Her body had healed completely under Tazhi’s constant, knowledgeable care. Her skin had tanned to a deep, healthy honey color, her step was light and sure on the rocky trails, and her hands had learned the intricate craft of scraping hides with an elk-bone adze and weaving baskets from split willow shoots.
Little Thomas—Bih-chin-te—grew rapidly, his cheeks plump and round, his dark eyes bright and curious as he watched the smoke rise from the hearth from the safety of his cradleboard. He rarely cried; like all Apache infants, he had learned the quiet stillness of the forest, content to listen to the whisper of the pines and the steady chime of the tin cones on Tazhi’s skirts.
One crisp morning, when the mist still clung like shredded wool to the shoulders of the peaks, three scouts rode hard into the camp from the southern rim.
Their horses were lathered with white foam, their flanks heaving from a gallop that had pushed them up the rocky ascent without pause. The lead scout—a young warrior named Hosteen—dismounted before Goyahkla’s lodge and raised his carbine in the air, calling out a message that brought the camp to an immediate, electric halt.
Chato emerged from his lodge, his Winchester in hand, and walked quickly to where Goyahkla stood listening.
Sarah, carrying Thomas in the cradleboard strapped to her back, stepped up beside Tazhi at the edge of the council circle, her stomach tightening with a familiar, instinctive dread.
"What is it?" Sarah whispered. "Are the outlaws back?"
"No outlaws," Tazhi murmured, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched the scout gesture toward the southern desert. "Blue coats. A long column of iron-carts and long-guns. They have marched out from Fort Lowell."
Chato listened to Hosteen’s rapid report, his jaw tightening into rigid angles. When the scout finished, Chato turned and walked directly toward Sarah.
"The soldiers are at the mouth of the San Pedro," Chato said quietly. "Two hundred horses. Three wagons of food and tents. They are led by the eagle-chief from the big fort—Major Howard."
Sarah felt a cold shiver run down her neck. Major Howard was well known throughout the territory; he was an officer who had fought in the great war in Virginia, known for his methodical discipline and his relentless pursuit of hostiles who left the reservations.
"Did they come for Goyahkla?" she asked.
"They come for you," Chato replied bluntly.
Sarah blinked in disbelief. "For me? Why would the army send two hundred men for a miner’s widow?"
"Charles Brennan," Chato said, his voice laced with venom. "Before the doctor took his hand, the deputy wrote letters to the territorial governor in Prescott. He swore that Goyahkla’s band attacked your homestead, murdered Thomas in his cabin, and dragged you into the mountains as a captive to be tortured and sold into Mexico."
Sarah stared at him, a wave of cold fury surging through her chest. "He lied. He knew Thomas died in the mine! He knew Carpenter broke my door!"
"A white man's paper does not care about the truth, Sarah," Chato said with bitter calm. "The newspapers in Tucson have printed the story: The Widow of Silver Creek Held by the Bloodthirsty Bedonkohe. The governor has offered a thousand dollars in silver for your return, and the mining companies are demanding that the army clear these mountains so their iron-shovels can dig the stone."
Goyahkla approached them, his heavy face dark with ancient, unbending resolve. He looked at Sarah, then at the child sleeping upon her back.