Chapter 5 - Whispers in Dry Creek
By nightfall, Chief Nana’s main war party had pulled back into the high labyrinth of the San Carlos badlands, leaving behind only Tazhi and four elite scouts hidden along the valley's choke points.
"Vance will not ride back to town to write reports," Tazhi told Corvin as the two of them sat by the hearth inside the darkened cabin. A single candle flickered between them, throwing long, dancing shadows against the pine walls. "He is an animal who only understands total slaughter. He has a telegraph line. He will hire the border irregulars—the scalphunters from the Mexican line."
Corvin cleaned the firing pin of his rifle with an oily rag. "Let them come. This cabin was built with squared oak timber. The shutters are two inches thick. I’ve held off Comanche raids with less."
"You fight like a white man, Corvin Torne," she countered, studying his weathered hands. "You lock yourself in a box and wait for them to burn it above your head. That is how brave men die stupidly."
"And how do you fight?" Corvin asked, meeting her gaze. Up close, her cheekbones bore the faint ceremonial marks of charcoal and red ochre. There was no softness in her, yet her presence brought an electric vitality into a room that had known only lonely silence for seven years.
"We strike while they mount their horses," she said flatly. "We become the night."
Outside, the crickets abruptly ceased their chorus.
Corvin was on his feet in a second, blowing out the candle. Through the rifle slit in the eastern shutter, he watched the moonlit perimeter. A low hoot sounded from the ridge—the cry of an owl, cut off midway.
The scout signal.
"They're already here," Tazhi whispered, appearing at his shoulder, smelling of sage and dry rain. "No horses. They came on foot through the streambed."
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A burst of gunfire tore through the night, splintering the heavy oak wood of the back door. Flames immediately blossomed as a whiskey bottle wrapped in burning rags crashed through the western window.
"Down!" Corvin shouted, dragging Tazhi to the floor as a barrage of lead tore through the cabin, shattering jars, ripping books from the shelves, and filling the air with acrid white smoke.
