The ghosts of his parents were now faint, worn away by years of silent days and lonely nights.
Cora finished splitting the last log and stacked it neatly against the cabin wall. Wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of a calloused hand, she put her senses on high alert.
Something was different.
The usual chirping of sparrows among the poplars near the spring had ceased. The very air seemed to hold its breath. Her hand instinctively reached for the cult's peacemaking sword, holstered at her hip, its worn hilt offering familiar comfort. She scanned the ridge that formed the western wall of her valley, missing no detail.
For a long moment, nothing was visible except the glow of heat emanating from the rocks. Then they appeared.
They didn't arrive amidst shouts and shouts. They materialized from the landscape as if born from the heat and dust themselves. Seven figures on powerful piebald ponies, cresting the crest in a single, formidable file.
They were imposing men, larger and taller than anyone he'd ever seen on his rare trips to the nearest settlement in Redemption Gulch. They were Chirikawa Apaches, with long black hair held back with simple rubber bands, their chests bare and glistening with sweat, and their legs encased in suede leggings.
Each of them had a rifle on their knees and a bow slung over their shoulders, but it was their presence, their absolute, overwhelming stillness, that sent a rush of pure adrenaline coursing through Kora's veins.
She didn't run away. Her father had taught her that panic was a luxury you couldn't afford in the wilderness. She stood still, her feet firmly planted in the land she called her own, her hand resting on the butt of her gun, her heart pounding against her ribs like a wild drum pounding in the sudden, profound silence.
He watched them lead their horses down the rocky slope with an easy grace that belied their size; the ponies' hooves made almost no sound on the hard, compact earth. They stopped about 50 meters from his cabin, a respectful distance.
The man in the center, who appeared to be their leader, dismounted. He was the most imposing of them all, with a face that seemed carved from the granite of the mountains themselves. High cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, and eyes as dark and intense as obsidian. A single eagle feather was knotted in his hair.
He handed the horse's reins to the man beside him and began walking toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. He was unarmed, his hands open at his sides in a gesture of peace, but that wasn't enough to calm the storm raging inside Kora.
He pulled out his gun.
