"You're crazy." He finally said it in a hoarse voice. "Completely, deliriously."
Gotchimin didn't react to her insult. His patience seemed as vast and deep as the sky above them.
"It's not madness," he said simply. "It's our goal."
"Your purpose," Kora's voice rose, laced with a mixture of fear and incredulous anger, to ride on a stranger's land. And she couldn't even repeat the ridiculous proposal. "Everyone get off my property, immediately."
He pointed with the barrel of his pistol at the ridge from which they had come. The six mounted warriors shifted slightly, a slight movement that denoted disciplined readiness. They turned their gaze to their leader, awaiting his command.
Gochimin, however, remained perfectly still.
"We won't leave," he said, his tone non-threatening, but firm. "Not until you've heard our offer in its entirety."
"I've heard enough," she retorted. "I don't know who you are or what game you're playing, but I don't care. The answer is no. Now go away or I'll start shooting. I'm a damn good shot."
To prove his point, he shifted his aim slightly and fired.
The blast of the .45-caliber bullet shattered the afternoon quiet. The bullet kicked up a cloud of dust a foot to the left of Gotchimin's moccasins. It was a warning shot, a clear and unmistakable statement.
The Apache chief didn't flinch in the slightest. His dark eyes remained fixed on hers, his expression impassive. His men also remained impassive, their composure utterly unsettling. They were warriors, and the sound of a single gun posed no threat to them. It was a child's whim.
"You're a good shot," Gotchimin said, recognizing her voice, still incredibly calm. "But you only have five bullets left in that gun. There are seven of us. We wish you no harm, Spring Woman. We wish to pay our respects."
"Honor me?" Cora laughed, a bitter, empty laugh. "I'd rather die if you gave me back your honor."
The word "squore" hung in the air, sharp and ugly. A flash of something—perhaps anger, perhaps disappointment—flickered across Gotchimin's eyes so quickly he almost missed it.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice harsher. "The wife of a Chirikawa chief is not a slave. She is the heart of the community. She is respected. She is protected. You would lack nothing: food, horses, blankets, protection from all enemies. Your life of toil would end."
He gestured toward his small, squalid abode.
“You are alone. You fight for every crumb. Every day is a battle against the sun, the drought, the predators. With us, you would be part of a people. You would never be alone again.”
His words had struck her to the core. In a few simple sentences, he had perfectly summed up the brutal, unnerving truth of her existence. Loneliness was a constant pain, a phantom limb she had learned to live with. But hearing that stranger say it out loud had felt like an accusation, a violation.
"I like being alone," she lied, her voice tense. "I chose this life."
"No one chooses to be last," Gotchamin replied, his intuition piercing his defenses. "It's a destiny we're given. But it doesn't have to be the destiny we're left with."
Frustration and a growing sense of helplessness overwhelmed Kora. It was a situation her father had never prepared her for. He knew how to deal with rattlesnakes, pumas, and desperate gold miners. She had no idea how to handle this.
They weren't attacking. They were waiting. Their patience was a far more effective weapon than any rifle.
"I have nothing more to say to you," he said, lowering the gun, though still holding it firmly in his hand. "The answer is no. Today, tomorrow, and forever. Stay or go. It makes no difference to me. But cross that line."
He drew an imaginary line in the dirt with the toe of his boot, about 10 feet away from himself.
"And you'll find yourself having to pull a bullet out of your stomach."
Without waiting for a response, she turned her back on them. A calculated risk, a show of defiance, she didn't hear it, and returned to her cabin. The heavy door creaked shut behind her, and she immediately dropped the thick bar into place.
Her hands were shaking. She leaned against the door, eyes closed, listening. She expected to hear the clatter of hooves, the sound of them leaving. Instead, there was nothing, just the chirping of returning birds and the rustling of the omnipresent wind.
Peering through a small crack in the shutter, he saw that they hadn't left. They had dismounted and were setting up a small, neat camp near the base of the ridge, well outside the line he'd drawn, but right on his property.
They moved with quiet efficiency, tending to the horses, building a small smokeless fire, and settling in as if they intended to stay through the winter.
A cold terror gripped Kora. They wouldn't leave. They were besieging her solitude. This wasn't an incursion or an attack she could resist. It was a test of will, a silent war of attrition.
They had time. They had the numerical superiority. And all she had was a hundred acres of land, a dwindling supply of ammunition, and a loneliness that was suddenly more terrifying than ever.
As dusk began to darken the sky, casting long shadows from the seven silent warriors camped on her land, Kora Abernathy felt a crack opening in the fortress of her isolation and feared that what was pouring in might overwhelm her.
Three days have passed.
