Van, Teven and Juan Semos sat together, each man wounded, bound and laid out before the surviving, bloodied, and exhausted Comanche. The four warriors raised their weapons as three riders galloped onto the farm. Gasento men. Gunmen.

Van watched through blood-filled vision. The gunmen wore black and rode jet stallions, not a hint of brown or blue-gray in their coats.

Juan Semos coughed, the old mestizo stockman still held the arrows he'd pulled from his own body. Teven lay on the other side of the elder Semos, a broken arrow shaft still deep within his left knee and lower thigh. Van strained at his bindings, tight rawhide straps, that cut into his wrists.

The lead gunman, a thin and hawkish countenanced man spoke in Spanish. “How much for your prisoners?”

A disfigured and scarred Comanche, his right arm hanging loose and twisted at his side, answered. “We have no business with you.” His comrades placed themselves between the prisoners and gunmen. The warriors stood tense, their weapons raised, white ash arrows ready to fly. The Gasento thugs sat calm upon their dark mounts. Silent.

The Comanche shook his war hawk with his left hand. “Your kind are not welcome here.”

The dark Gasento thug laughed. He adjusted himself in his saddle. He flicked his hand around. “These are Gasento lands.” He waved his hand eastward. “Comancheria is far away. You sell slaves to Comancheros. That is us.”

The Comanche shook his head. “I do not see Gasentos.”

Teven looked at Van, “What are they saying?”

“No.” Juan Semos whispered.

Van shook two fingers at Juan Semos. “Not Gasentos? Why? Because they're ranch staff? Hired gunmen?”

Teven frowned. “I'm lost.”

“Look at these.” Juan Semos rolled onto his stomach and waved the broken arrows held in his bound hands.

Teven grimaced. “It's clear those shootists want us. You want to use the arrows to fight?”

The gunmen and Comanche shouted in Spanish as Juan Semos explained himself. “These arrows are white ash. The farmers died days ago yet the Comanche waited. Why? To see if the farmers died.”

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Teven glanced at Van. “Isn't that how they kill? Through torture? Captives left out in the sun and to the coyotes? Or to starve or die of thirst and the cruel whims of mother nature?”

Van clenched his jaw as his stomach dropped. He rubbed the flesh between his thumb and pointer finger with his other thumb and stared at Teven. “White ash is a sacred wood. Imbued with magic.”

Magic.

Teven slumped onto his back and groaned.

Van dropped his forehead to the blood-soaked soil. The strong scent of sage mixed with sweat and iron.

*

Day Long rode forward with foul curses on his tongue. “The hell, brethren, how'd you lot go about losin’ the big augers?”

Nathan put a hand up to the Seminole scout. “They're late returning from a nearby farm. We've driven the herd past where the farm lies beyond the hills and there's no sign of Teven, Van, or old Juan Semos.”

Christian arrived behind Day Long, as Nathan gestured to Marcos. “Christian and Marcos will continue to ride point, while you and I search the farm and more if needed.”

Marcos sat atop a gray gelding, beside Nathan, who was likewise riding; the chuck wagon now mastered by Hernan Semos.

Day Long steadied his mount. Everyone eased along at a canter.

“If we're just searching the farm, I don't see why…” Christian said.

Day Long interrupted the Har brother with a quick motion of his pointer finger from his eye to Christian Har. “Hush up now. We done spoke on this. Me an’ Silver Hair is decided. You're leadin’ the beeves til he an’ I return with or without yo brother, Van, and ol’ Juan.”

Nathan gestured with both hands pumped in a calming motion. “Christian, if they're missing from the farm, Day Long and I will find signs of where they might be. There's Apache in these mountains. Maybe hostile, but you're as likely to come across Zuni…”

Day Long rode between Christian and Nathan. “You ain't helpin’, Drake. Lil Har, you do as we say. You can't come it. So hobble yo lip. Van will be back here feedin’ on his bee-sweetening before you know it.” Day Long swung around and pointed at Nathan. “Now let's get a wiggle on, Drake.”

*

Van rolled onto his shoulder. The Comanche warrior no longer yelled. All was silent, but for wind through the timber atop the nearby mesa. He strained to see and understood. A wolf, with a black stripe on one shoulder, approached. Both the Gasento gunmen and Comanche warriors watched the large predator in silence. The beast stopped between the two groups, glanced at the three prisoners behind the Comanche, and looked up at the lead warrior. Van eyed the white ash arrows nocked and aimed at the wolf by the braves before a piercing pain in his temples forced his eyes closed. With gritted teeth, he squinted at the animal he now knew to be the true threat.

The wolf raised its head to the warriors. Of a sudden, its jaws opened abnormally wide and peeled back with a sound like cracked knuckles. From within the creature's throat, a human face emerged. The beast contorted and stood on its rear legs as the body rippled and split to reveal a Spanish man wearing a wolf skin with a jagged scar down one shoulder and across the collarbone, his skin slick with blood.

Juan Semos spoke in a harsh whisper. “Diablero!”