They spoke little, their voices a low murmur that rarely reached her. They were waiting—for what she couldn’t be sure. For her to run out of food, to lose her nerve, to simply give in from the sheer psychological weight of their presence.
Her supplies were running low, particularly flour and salt. It was a trip she had been putting off, but now it was a necessity. The thought of leaving her homestead unguarded, even for a day, sent a chill of fear down her spine.
But staying put was not an option, either. She had to go to Redemption Gulch, and perhaps, just perhaps, she could find help.
The thought felt foolish, even as it formed. Who in redemption gulch would help her against seven Churikawa warriors?
She rose before dawn on the fourth day, saddling her sturdiest mule, Jezebel, with practiced hands. She packed two empty flower sacks, and a small list etched in her memory. As the first pale light of dawn touched the mountain peaks, she unbarred the door and stepped out a rifle clutched in her hand.
The Apache camp was already awake. Gochimin stood by their small fire, a cup of something steaming in his hand. He watched her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He made no move to stop her as she led Jezebel toward the trail that wound out of the valley.
As she passed their camp, keeping a wide birth, she could feel the eyes of all seven men on her. It was like walking through a gauntlet of silent judgment.
The ride to Redemption Gulch took half a day.
The town was little more than a single dusty street flanked by a dozen sunbleleached wooden buildings, a general store, a saloon, a blacksmith, an assayer’s office, and a sheriff’s office with a small jail attached.
It was a place populated by hard bitten prospectors, weary ranchers, and women whose eyes held the same resilience Kora saw in her own reflection. She was a known, if not understood, figure here, the Abernathy girl. They called her the hermit, who lived out by the old dragoon pass.
