“Remember Me, Cowboy?” The Apache Girl You Saved Came Back Years Later Asking To Marry

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“The barn, 30 yards behind me.

Go.

” She pushed herself up, stumbled toward the barn.

Garrett fired twice more at the rocks, keeping the riders pinned, then turned and sprinted after her.

Bullets chased them.

One splintered the fence post next to Garrett’s head.

Another punched through the barn wall as he dove inside and slammed the door.

Darkness, the smell of hay and old wood, the sound of the woman’s ragged breathing.

Garrett crossed to the far wall where he kept his ammunition, began loading his pockets with cartridges.

How many are there? Four, the woman gasped.

Now three.

Who are they? Morrison’s men.

The name hit Garrett like a fist to the stomach.

Morrison.

Of course it was Morrison.

It was always Morrison.

Outside a voice shouted, rough familiar filled with false camaraderie.

Veil, we know you are in there.

This does not concern you.

Send out the Apache and we will ride away.

No one else has to die today.

Garrett recognized the voice.

Silus Cade, Morrison’s right-hand man, the same man who had set fire to Garrett’s house 6 years ago, who had left him for dead in the flames.

The woman was staring at him now, her chest still heaving.

Her face was stre with dirt and blood.

Her dress was torn, revealing bruises on her shoulder and ribs.

But it was her eyes that held Garrett frozen.

Those eyes.

He knew those eyes.

Impossible but true.

Ayana.

The name came out barely a whisper.

The woman’s face crumpled.

Tears cut clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks.

The woman stared at him, confusion and fear woring in her expression.

She did not recognize him.

Six years had changed.

Garrett too much.

The scar that ran from forehead to jaw.

The gray that had crept into his hair.

The hardness that living alone had carved into his face.

“How do you know my name?” Her hand moved to the knife at her belt.

Garrett slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out the silver compass, held it where she could see the engraving.

“God’s eyes went wide, her breath caught.

” “The man from the fire,” she whispered.

“The one who hid me.

You You are alive.

Yes, and so are you.

Recognition flooded her face, then tears.

She collapsed against the barn wall, shaking.

You remember me? Garrett’s mind reeled back six years.

A night of fire and screaming.

A village of Apache families camping on land that Dalton Morrison claimed as his own.

Morrison had given the order to clear them out.

Use force if necessary.

Garrett had been Morrison’s foreman, then had led 12 men to do the job.

But when they arrived, it was not warriors they found.

It was women, children, old men.

Garrett had tried to stop it, had shouted for his men to hold fire.

But Morrison’s orders had been clear, and most of the men followed orders.

The shooting started, then the blurr, then the screaming.

Garrett managed to save one child, a 12-year-old girl who had hidden beneath the wreckage of a burning wagon.

He pulled her out, carried her to his own house, hid her in the root cellar until the violence ended.

When Morrison discovered what Garrett had done, the punishment was immediate.

Morrison’s men set Garrett’s house on fire with him inside.

He survived barely, but the girl was gone.

Garrett assumed she had run, found her people disappeared into the desert.

He never learned her name until now.

You are alive, Garrett said the words, inadequate, ridiculous.

I am alive because of you.

Ayana’s hands were shaking.

She reached into the small leather bag she had been clutching against her chest, pulled out something wrapped in cloth, a silver compass engraved with the letters G V.

Garrett’s throat tightened.

He had given that compass to the girl before she fled.

Told her if she ever needed help find him.

He never expected she would, never expected to see her again.

I kept it, Ayana said.

I kept it because you were the first person who did not try to kill me.

The only person outside, Silus Cage shouted again, “Veil, I am losing patience.

You have one minute.

” Garrett looked at the compass in Ayana’s hand.

Looked at her face, no longer a child, but a woman now 25 years old and marked by suffering.

Looked at the bruises, the torn clothing, the desperate exhaustion in every line of her body.

What are they chasing you for? Ayana unwrapped the cloth from around the compass.

Beneath it was a book, a thick ledger bound in leather, its pages swollen with ink, and what looked like dried blood.

This she opened the ledger.

Garrett saw names, dates, numbers, row after row after row.

The handwriting was neat, methodical, the recordkeeping of a careful businessman.

“Morrison is not just killing Apache to take land,” Ayana said.

her voice steady, now hardened by fury.

He is selling us women, children.

He sells us to the silver mines in Mexico like cattle, like property.

This ledger lists every transaction for the past 8 years.

Garrett took the book with hands that had begun to shake.

He flipped through pages, saw names he recognized.

Families, entire families.

On the last page, one entry made him stop breathing.

Nashoba family, 12 people, $600.

Delivery Chihuahua mine, March 15th, 1877.

Nashoba, Garrett said.

That is your family name.

Was my family name.

Ayana’s voice did not break, but her hands clenched into fists.

Everyone died.

My mother, my father, my two sisters, my uncle and aunt, and their children.

All of them.

Everyone.

No.

Ayana met his eyes.

My brother survived.

Nash, he is still alive, but Morrison has him prisoner.

Morrison sent me a message three weeks ago.

I have seven days to trade this ledger for my brother’s life.

If I do not, Nash will be thrown into the mineshaft alive.

The pieces fell into place.

The chase, the desperation, the ledger worth more than gold.

How did you get this? I worked in Morrison’s house for two years, Ayana said.

cleaning, cooking.

He never looked at me twice.

I was just another servant invisible.

One night he left his office unlocked.

I found the ledger in his safe.

I have been running ever since.

Outside, Silas shouted again, but this time there was an edge of anger.

Veil time is up.

Either you send her out or we burn you out.

You know we will do it.

We have done it before.

Yes, Garrett thought.

They had done it before.

The scar on his face throbbed with the memory of heat and smoke and flames.

He could push Ayana out the door, save himself, go back to his quiet life of fence posts and silence and slow suffocation under the weight of guilt.

Or he could do what he should have done six years ago.

Choose the right side.

Garrett stood walked to the barn door rifle in hand.

He opened it.

Silas Cade stood 50 yards away, partially hidden behind Garrett’s water trough.

He was grinning, confident.

Behind him, the other two riders had taken positions behind rocks.

Smart choice, Veil.

Now send her out, and we will forget this ever happened.

Garrett raised the Winchester, aimed fired in one smooth motion.

The bullet took Silus in the right leg.

He went down screaming.

Garrett worked the lever, fired again.

The shot hit the man crouched behind the rocks in the shoulder.

He spun and fell.

The third rider broke cover, running for his horse.

Garrett fired a third time.

Missed.

The rider made it to his mount, spurred the horse into a gallop, and disappeared over the rise, heading east.

Garrett stepped out of the barn, walked to where Silas lay, clutching his leg.

Blood seeped between his fingers.

His face had gone white.

“You made a mistake, Veil,” Silas gasped.

“Morrison will kill you for this.

He will burn everything you have built.

Garrett looked down at the man who had once set him on fire.

Felt nothing, no anger, no satisfaction, just a cold, clear certainty.

Let him try.

He fired once more.

The shot ended Silas Cade.

The wounded man behind the rocks was trying to crawl away.

Garrett walked over, looked down at him.

The man was young, maybe 22, and terrified.

“You ride back to Morrison,” Garrett said.

You tell him Garrett Vale is done hiding.

You tell him I am coming for him.

And you tell him I am bringing proof of everything he has done.

The young man nodded frantically, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Garrett helped him onto his horse, slapped the animals rump.

The horse took off at a run.

When Garrett turned back to the barn, Ayana was standing in the doorway.

She looked at Silas’s body, looked at Garrett, looked at the blood on his hands.

“You just gave up everything for me,” she said quietly.

“No.

” Garrett walked past her into the barn, began gathering supplies, ammunition, cantens, food.

“I gave it up 6 years ago when I led Morrison’s men to your family.

Today, I just stopped pretending I could outrun it.

Where are we going?” Red Canyon Mine to get your brother.

That is 2 and 1/2 days north if we push the horses hard.

Morrison gave me 7 days total.

I have already used three getting here.

If we go to Red Canyon and come back, we will have maybe one day left.

It will be close.

Very close.

Garrett finished loading supplies into a leather saddle bag turned to face her.

Then we split up.

I ride to Red Canyon.

Get your brother out.

You take the ledger to Fort Sumner, deliver it to the territorial governor.

He is the only man in New Mexico with enough authority to arrest Morrison.

We meet at Ghost Ridge in 5 days.

That gives me 2 and 1/2 days to reach the mine one day to get your brother out and just over one day to reach Ghost Ridge.

No.

Ayana’s eyes flashed.

I do not trust anyone.

Morrison owns half the officials in this territory.

They will take the ledger and destroy it.

I will be dead within a day.

Then trust me to do what? Rescue my brother alone against Morrison’s men.

Yes.

Why would you do this? Garrett met her eyes, held her gaze.

Let her see the truth in his face.

Because 6 years ago I made a choice that got your family killed.

I cannot change that.

But I can keep you alive and I can bring your brother home.

That is all I have left to offer.

Ayana’s jaw trembled.

She looked away, looked back, blinked hard against tears.

If you fail, if you cannot save him, what then? Then you take the ledger to the governor anyway.

Let the world know what Morrison did.

Even if Nishoda dies, his death will mean something.

Ayana was silent for a long moment.

Outside smoke was beginning to rise from Garrett’s cabin.

The third writer must have set it on fire before fleeing.

6 years of work burning again.

Garrett did not look, did not care.

Finally, Ayana nodded.

I will trust you, but only because six years ago, you were the only person who chose to save me when everyone else chose to run.

They saddled two horses, loaded supplies, filled cantens from the well before the fire could reach it.

By the time they rode away from the ranch, flames were consuming everything Garrett owned.

His cabin, his barn, his fence posts.

He did not look back.

They rode west until nightfall, then made camp in a dry riverbed beneath an overhang of red rock.

No fire, too dangerous.

They ate dried meat and hard bread in silence, sharing a canteen.

Above them, stars emerged in a sky so clear and vast it hurt to look at.

The kind of sky that made a man feel small, insignificant, like all his sins and all his regrets meant nothing in the face of such immensity.

Ayana sat against the rock wall, hugging her knees.

The ledger rested beside her, wrapped carefully in oil.

The compass hung around her neck on a leather cord.

“Tell me about my brother,” she said quietly.

“What he will be like when you find him.

” Garrett did not sugarcoat it.

He will be broken.

Six years in a mine will do that.

He may not even recognize you, but he will be alive.

If Morrison kept his word, Morrison does not keep his word to anyone.

No, Garrett agreed.

He does not.

Ayana pulled her knees tighter.

When I was 12, after you hid me after the fire, I ran for 3 days straight.

I did not sleep.

I did not eat.

I just ran.

When I finally found other Apache, they took me in, but they did not trust me.

They said I was cursed.

Said I brought death with me.

Some of them wanted to leave me in the desert to die.

She paused, swallowed hard.

But an old woman, a healer, she said no.

She said I survived for a reason, that the spirits had a purpose for me.

I did not believe her then.

I thought I survived by accident, by luck.

And now Ayana looked at him.

Now I think maybe she was right.

Maybe I survived so I could stop Morrison, so I could save the others.

There are others, dozens, maybe hundreds.

The ledger only shows the ones Morrison sold.

It does not show the ones who are still imprisoned, still working in his minds.

If we expose him, if we can bring him down, they might go free.

Garrett felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders.

This was bigger than one brother, bigger than one woman’s revenge.

This was about justice for hundreds of people whose names he would never know.

“We will stop him,” Garrett said.

And for the first time in six years, he meant it.

They slept in shifts.

Garrett took first watch, sitting with his rifle across his knees, listening to the night sounds of the desert.

Coyotes in the distance, the whisper of wind through rock.

Ayana’s quiet breathing as exhaustion finally pulled her under.

When it was her turn to watch Garrett lay down but did not sleep, he stared at the stars and thought about the man he used to be.

The man who followed orders without question.

The man who believed that if he just kept his head down and did his job, everything would be fine.

That man had died in the fire six years ago.

The man who emerged from the flames was different, harder, colder.

But maybe Garrett thought maybe there was still something worth saving in him.

Maybe.

Dawn came gray and cold.

They ate quickly, saddled the horses, prepared to part ways.

Garrett checked Ayana’s rifle, made sure she had enough ammunition.

You know how to use this.

My father taught me to shoot a bow.

This cannot be much different.

Point at what you want to stop.

Squeeze.

Do not pull and do not hesitate.

Ayana took the rifle, tested its weight.

How will I know if you succeeded? If you found Nashota, we meet at Ghost Ridge in 5 days.

It is halfway between Red Canyon and Fort Sumner.

If I am not there by sunset on the fifth day, assume I am dead.

And if I am not there, same.

Ayana nodded slowly.

Then she did something Garrett did not expect.

She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him in a brief, fierce embrace.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For giving me hope.

” Before Garrett could respond, she pulled away, mounted her horse, and rode east toward Fort Sumar without looking back.

Garrett watched until she disappeared over the horizon.

Then he turned north toward Red Canyon toward the brother he had never met, toward a promise he might not be able to keep.

He had four days.

Four days to cross hostile territory, infiltrate a fortified mine, rescue a prisoner, and make it back to Ghost Ridge alive.

The odds were not good.

But Garrett Vale had stopped caring about odds six years ago.

He spurred his horse forward into the rising sun, and the desert swallowed him whole.

Red Canyon sat like a wound in the earth.

A deep gash of rustcoled rock that ran north to south for three miles.

At its southern end, where the walls narrowed to a bottleneck, Morrison had built his mine.

Not the kind of mine where men went home at night to their families, the kind where men went to die slowly, digging silver from stone until their bodies gave out.

Garrett reached the canyon rim late in the afternoon of the second day.

He had pushed brutally hard, riding 16 hours each day, stopping only when the horse was near collapse.

He ate in the saddle, slept in 90-minute shifts, drove himself and the animal to their limits, 2 and 1/2 days to cover what would normally take four.

It was possible barely, and he had made it.

Now he lay flat on his belly behind a tumble of boulders, studying the mine through a small brass telescope he had brought from his saddle bag.

The mine entrance was a black mouth in the canyon wall, reinforced with timber framing that looked newer than the rock around it.

Two guard towers flanked the entrance.

Crude structures of wood and stone with riflemen visible on the platforms.

Between the towers, a cluster of buildings, barracks, a supply shed, what looked like an office.

Garrett counted men, 15 guards visible, probably more inside the mine itself.

Too many for a direct assault.

He would need to be smart about this.

He collapsed the telescope, inched backward from the rim, returned to where he had left his horse tied in a stand of juniper.

As he reached for his canteen, a voice spoke behind him.

“You move pretty quiet for a white man.

” Garrett spun hand going to his pistol.

Stopped.

A young Apache man stood 10 feet away, bowed, arrow knocked, and aimed at Garrett’s chest.

He was maybe 18, lean and hard muscled with eyes that burned with barely controlled fury.

“I have been following you since yesterday,” the young man said, waiting to see if you would lead me to Morrison.

Garrett kept his hand away from his weapon.

“Who are you, Kona? Son of Chief Tasuda, who Morrison murdered six years ago?” The arrow did not waver.

I know who you are, Veil.

I remember you from that night.

You were there when my father died.

Yes, you helped kill him.

I tried to stop it.

Not hard enough.

Kona’s jaw clenched.

My father’s blood is on your hands.

Give me one reason I should not kill you right now.

Garrett met the young man’s eyes.

Did not flinch.

Did not beg.

I cannot give you a reason.

If you want to kill me, do it.

But know that if you do, Ayana Nashoba loses her only chance to save her brother.

The arrow tip dipped slightly.

Ayana, she is alive.

Alive and trying to stop Morrison.

I am here to rescue her brother from the mine.

After that, we are going to destroy Morrison and everyone who works for him.

Kona stared at him for a long moment.

The arrow stayed drawn.

Then slowly he lowered the bow.

I have been hunting Morrison for six years, Kona said, tracking him, learning his patterns, waiting for my chance to put an arrow through his heart.

But he is too well protected, too careful.

He looked toward the canyon.

Is Nishoda really down there? According to Ayana, yes, and you plan to get him out, just you against 15 men if I have to.

Kona studied Garrett’s face, searching for deception, for weakness.

Found neither.

Finally, he nodded.

I will help you, not because I forgive you, but because my father would want me to save Nash, and because when this is over, I want Morrison dead.

You can help me do that.

Garrett extended his hand.

Kona looked at it for a moment, then gripped it briefly.

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