The Comanche sentinel watched from the ridge as Juan Semos, Teven and Van galloped back to the farm.

Between the two outbuildings and fencing, Juan Semos spoke. “I did not see them when first we rode in.”

“Neither did we.” Teven answered. He touched his head. “But Van knows.”

Whether hidden among the low junipers or scattered rabbitbrush, Van sensed the Comanche, and cursed his desire to avoid conflict. He was resigned to it. His instincts pressed against his skull, just as when they first arrived at the farm.

With no time for second guesses, Van dismounted. “They're coming.”

Teven checked the rounds in his pistol and placed several loose paper cartridge spares and percussion caps in his belt pouch. With a muzzle-loaded cylinder, he didn't hold much hope in reloading. He looked up at an unspoken signal from Van. The Comanche sentinel sat atop the low ridge, flanked by twelve warriors.

The Comanche riders charged, whooping and screeching. Van remained calm, the warriors as nothing compared to the wraiths unleashed by the Krasnodar Cossacks not so long ago—fierce horsemen on the far side of the world who turned to magic and an alliance with the dead to defend their Russian coasts.

As the lead riders approached, threatening with their lances and war hawks, but withholding any arrow fire, Van unleashed his whip, striking the muzzles and chests of the nearest horses. The beasts bucked and attempted to throw their riders. The warriors seemed pleased, pleasantly shocked, but surprised nonetheless that Van was upon and among them, cracking his whip against mount and rider without mercy.

Teven fired a reaping barrage, emptying his pistol before riding his steed over and trampling the fallen Comanche. Juan Semos followed, but by then, the remaining warriors let loose their arrows.

Juan Semos toppled from his horse. He stared at the bloodied shaft of the arrow jutting from his shoulder.

White ash.

*

Nathan expected Van to return well before noon, yet as the sun crested and the herd continued its drive eastward, there was no sign of the trio. The blonde scout sat on the covered wagon and awaited the herd. After years in the mountains, the impact of the New Mexico landscape struck him with its startling contrast. A vast and brooding land of magnificent splendor, flat and arid with sparse vegetation divided by barren upland plateaus. Their route, studded with mesas cut by a labyrinthine web of canyons, led them east toward the flat grasslands of the American plains.

The herd’s approach was heard before the wagon shook, and after the draft horses took note. Nathan sensed it too, in his inner ear and in his gut. The dust hung above the horizon, the low rumble of noise grew to understandable sounds and shouted words. Marcos and Christian rode ahead.

“Nathan?” Christian swung his arms.

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The blonde scout took up the reins of the draft horses, it wasn't time to slow the herd, for it wasn't an easy thing. He waved Christian forward to ride as close as possible beside the wagon. They yelled at each other, even ahead of the cacophony of the herd.

“Have you seen your brother?” Nathan addressed both Christian and Marcos. “Van? Any of them?”

Christian glanced at Marcos. To Nathan, it was clear, had they returned, the trio would be with the herd, at the lead.

Marcos and Christian shook their heads. Nathan breathed in. “Alright, send word back, I want Day Long up here.”

*

The Comanche circled the party of drovers in a wide arc, as Van intended, forced to include the outbuildings and blocked by the corral fencing. The circling warriors drew back their arrows as Van and Teven dispatched the fallen riders. Juan Semos lay nearby, the shaft of a second white ash embedded deep in his thigh, he looked up from the wound as Van spun and cracked his whip at a passing Comanche, edging closer to a fallen lance and two war hawks from warriors shot and trampled by Teven. Fighting in tandem, the old friends dodged arrow fire while shielded among the fallen Comanche.

Seizing the fallen lance, Van rolled and jabbed the weapon deep into the belly of the next Comanche mount. The horse screeched in pain, its master riding the animal to the ground with great skill, lunging for Van the moment the body of the thrashing beast struck the dirt.

Van countered the warrior's blow with the first fallen war hawk, while Teven swept down from his own horse and swept up the second.

Now back to back, the two men faced the incensed Comanche warriors, aware of the danger of presenting a central target for the clan’s arrows, they separated to engage.

A Comanche menaced Juan Semos from atop a lathered bay gelding, an arrow aimed at the old drover. The two men’s eyes met, Juan Semos tracked the warrior's gaze, studying the white ash shafts jutting from his shoulder and thigh. The warrior cawed and cued his mount toward Van and Teven.

Juan Semos reached for the arrow in his shoulder, struck by a realization more sickening than his wounds.

*

Day Long chewed on the mix of corn paste, honey and dried berries given by the Abajo and appropriated from the chuck wagon. Christian rounded the mass of cattle through the thick, acrid dust, his free arm waved as he yelled, even though Day Long couldn't hear over the clamor of the cattle.

Closer, Christian’s words became clearer. “...is missing. They haven't returned from the farm.”

Day Long pointed at his ears and raised his other hand to Christian. The young wrangler quit yelling and focused on his mount’s gallop.

The two men met as the Black Seminole eased his grulla toward Christian and away from the clouds of dust. Riding alongside each other, the younger Har brother repeated himself. “Van, Teven, and Señor Semos haven't returned from that farm Semos took them to. Nathan's worried something happened.”

Day Long pushed his snack into his vest pocket. “You two ladies are gettin’ worried a might early. You know how farmers are?”

Christian frowned.

“Either they pull a gun on you an’ want you off their land, or they're so damned stir crazy for company, they talk yo ears off.”

Christian shook his head. “No, Nathan thinks maybe they ran into trouble.”

“Indians.”

“Right. Maybe. Anyway, he wants you to join us.”

“Us?” Day Long pointed at Christian with his fingers together, jutting his hand forward. “Tell you right now, brethren. You'll be stayin’ wit’ the herd.”

“Hell no.” Christian reined his horse to a stop.

“Hell yes, an’ stay there, ‘cause we can't have you gettin’ all excitable.”

“Me? Excited? You're the crazy one. I'm going after my brother.”

Day Long raised his hand. “We need you lookin’ after the herd. Drake and I are the scouts, you ain’t got the skills. Van put you in charge of the herd.”

Christian sat with his mouth agape. His cheek twitched and he tilted his head to one side. He shook his head. Coughing on the dust, he cleared his throat. “Right, to watch over the vaqueros with Marcos and Hernan.” He spurred his horse forward. “Hold up.” But Day Long was already at a full gallop around the herd.