Beside him rode four men she did not know, their carbines balanced across their saddle horns.
"Quiet down," Carpenter hissed, swinging his thick leg over his saddle and landing heavily on the hard ground. "Tether the horses to the cedar post. Don't go making a circus of it."
Sarah’s heart hammered against her ribs with such violence that she could hear the blood roaring in her ears. She dropped to her knees beneath the sill, pressing her back against the rough cottonwood logs.
"You sure the woman's alone, Dutch?" one of the riders asked, his voice muffled by a bandanna. "Brennan said the place was empty save for her, but I don't like poking around these draws at night. The Chiricahua have been seen south of the pass."
Brennan.
The name struck Sarah like a physical blow. A cold, nauseating realization washed over her. Brennan had not merely threatened her at the mercantile; he had pointed the wolves directly to her door. If Carpenter and his thugs ran her off or worse, the claim would be abandoned, free for the deputy to seize through the county commissioner’s office.
"Shut your jaw about the redskins," Carpenter snapped. "Brennan said the miner cached three hundred dollars in gold dust under the hearthstones before that tunnel caved in on him. Mitchell was bragging about it at the assay office three days before he died. We tear the floorboards up, take the dust, and burn the shack. If the woman's inside, that's her misfortune."
"What about her?" another man asked with a low, ugly chuckle. "A woman alone gets lonely."
"I said we find the gold and get out," Carpenter growled. "Brennan wants her gone or compliant. If she runs, let her run into the scrub. She won't survive two days without water."
Heavy footsteps mounted the front porch. The timbers groaned under the weight.
Sarah did not hesitate. There was no time for tears, no time for panic. Survival was a matter of seconds.
Crouching low, she scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees toward the rough deal table. Her fingers found the canvas satchel. She scooped up the half-loaf of stale bread, a small tin flask of water, and her seven silver dollars. Her hand closed over Thomas's silver pocket watch. She thrust it into the deep pocket of her apron.
From above, a boot kicked violently against the front door.
BANG.
The iron latch rattled in its wooden housing.
"Open up, widow!" Carpenter bellowed. "Make it easy on yourself!"
BANG.
The pine frame splintered.
Sarah reached the rear door—a narrow slab of cottonwood leading out into the brush behind the cabin. The bar was made of light pine. Her hands shook violently as she lifted it from the iron brackets, praying that the hinges had been greased well enough.
A heavy shoulder slammed into the front door. With a deafening crack of tearing wood, the front door gave way, crashing inward against the floorboards.
"Spread out!" Carpenter roared. "Strike a light! Check the bed!"
Sarah eased the back door open just enough to squeeze her swollen body through. The cold night air hit her face like ice water. She slipped out into the shadow of the cabin wall, pulled the door nearly shut, and dropped into the dry irrigation ditch that ran behind the house.
Behind her, she heard the sound of furniture being overturned, glass shattering, and men cursing as they kicked the hearth apart with their heavy boots.
"Nothing here!" someone shouted from inside. "The bed's empty! She slipped out!"
"Find her!" Carpenter shouted. "She couldn't have gone far on foot in her state! Search the brush!"
Sarah did not look back. Gathering her heavy calico skirts in one hand, she turned her back on her home, on Silver Creek, and on everything she had ever known, and fled out into the vast, indifferent darkness of the Arizona territory.
Night in the high desert was a living, predatory thing.
The warmth of the sun-baked earth bled away into the clear, starry sky within hours, leaving behind a sharp, biting cold that turned the breath to vapor. The shadows of ocotillo and saguaro stretched across the gravel like skeletal fingers, shifting with the cold northwest wind that swept down from the Mogollon Rim.
Sarah did not run; running would mean a twisted ankle, a broken leg, or a fall against the jagged basalt outcroppings that littered the floor of the wash. Instead, she moved with a desperate, hurried stride, her head down, her boots crunching softly on the coarse river sand.
She could hear the outlaws behind her.