Heat pressed down like a living thing, scalding every inch of exposed skin. The battered stagecoach leaned drunkenly on its broken axle, one horse dead and the other two trembling, wide-eyed, their sides heaving. Around us, blood soaked into the thirsty sand, staining boots and blue uniforms and the faded dress hem at Sarah Jenkins’s ankles. But for now, no one moved to attack. The only sounds were the groans of the wounded and the dry rattle of someone’s breath.
I let the saber fall to my side, the blood crusting thick on my knuckles. My shoulder burned—an arrow had torn a strip of flesh. I reached for my cravat, tore it loose, and pressed it against the wound. The fabric stained dark almost instantly but the pain helped keep me focused, awake. Not dead. Not yet.
Mr. Abernathy coughed, clutching his side. “Is it... is it over?”
Sarah shook her head, wild eyes darting to the horizon. “Why did they stop?” Her voice was barely a whisper, brittle as sun-baked twigs.
Wild Bill crouched low, pistol in one hand, peering through the shattered coach window. “They ain’t gone. They’re watching us. Waiting, maybe.” His jaw clenched, voice flat. “That was Broken Nose up there. Chief himself.”
The name sent a chill down my spine. We’d all heard the stories—ruthless, clever, never striking twice the same way. If Broken Nose had called the halt, it was for a reason. But what?
A breeze kicked up, swirling dust and the copper scent of blood. Down the slope, the dark shapes of horses moved among the rocks—warriors, just out of rifle range, bows held loose but ready.
Elias’s body lay sprawled near the wheel, glassy eyes fixed on the sky. I knelt by him anyway, closing those eyes with grim finality. There’d be time to mourn later. If we lived through this day.
Sarah’s hand fluttered to my arm. “What do we do? We can’t outrun them, not with the coach like this.”
I forced myself to stand, keeping one eye on the canyon rim. “We hold. We watch. And if Broken Nose wants parley, we hear him out.”
The words tasted like sand in my mouth. My heart hammered, sweat stinging the wound at my shoulder. But the alternative—running blindly, guns blazing—would get us all killed.
The warriors made no move to approach. Instead, a low, rhythmic chant began to rise from their ranks, drifting across the hot emptiness. A warning, or a summons?
Bill gripped the pistol tighter. “God help us if they come again.”
But then, from the shadow of the rocks, a single warrior began to walk forward, alone, beadwork flashing on his chest, empty hands raised to show he carried no weapon. Broken Nose. He stopped twenty paces from the coach and waited, eyes locked with mine, the desert sun glinting off the scar that split his face.
The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.
I knew, with the sort of clarity that only comes in moments of crisis: whatever happened next would decide not just my fate, but that of every soul crouched by this battered stage. The canyon walls seemed to press inward, holding us all in the grip of something ancient and inexorable.
A crow called from high overhead. Sweat trickled down my spine. My saber still hung heavy in my hand, the blood of the morning’s violence not yet dry.
Broken Nose spoke, his voice carrying clear and cold across the divide. “You fight hard. Now we talk. Bring your wisdom.” He waited, unmoving, gaze unwavering.
Behind me, Sarah caught her breath. Abernathy whimpered. Every instinct screamed caution, but the moment demanded an answer—a step into the open, or another round of death.
My legs tensed, ready to move.
And above us, the wind changed, bringing with it the scent of rain—rare, baleful, promising both hope and danger.
The decision hung, suspended, as the first fat drop struck the barrel of my gun, and Broken Nose’s eyes narrowed, waiting for me to act.