“Tracks are getting older,” Blaze said after a bit. “Could be days.”
“Could be weeks,” Marisol replied. “Depends on how many storms have rolled through.”
He smiled a little. “You always this cheerful?”
“Only around people who talk too much.”
He let that go, but inside he found her sharpness strangely grounding. She was hard, that much was clear, but not cruel. Just someone who’d been through hell and come out with her teeth bared.
When the sun completely disappeared, the land began to change. Nancy’s breathing had grown heavy, the kind that said the horse was holding on out of loyalty more than comfort.
“Let’s stop a while,” Blaze said.
Marisol slowed her horse but didn’t dismount. “You planning to rest every five miles?”
“Not planning to kill my horse either,” Blaze replied.
He swung down and led Nancy toward the nearest tree. Marisol finally sighed and followed, though not without muttering something in Spanish he didn’t quite catch.
They let the horses drink from their canteens, pouring just enough to wet their lips. The silence stretched again.
“You think we’re close?” Blaze asked.
“If the Riders came through here, they’ll be heading north,” Marisol said. “Toward the canyon or the old mine. That’s where the gold runs deep.”
Blaze frowned. “You been tracking them that long?”
“Long enough to know how they think.”
He studied her for a moment. The moon cut lines of silver through her dark hair, and her jaw was set like stone.
“Then maybe we can think together,” he said. “Two heads and all.”
She looked at him, unreadable. “You talk like this is some kind of game. It isn’t.”
“I know that,” Blaze said. “They took both my parents.”
That silenced her. For the first time, her expression softened. She leaned against her saddle, eyes down.
Before Blaze could say anything else, Nancy lifted her head, ears pricking. Marisol’s white Mustang stallion did the same, nostrils flaring.
“What is it?” Blaze asked.
Marisol’s hand slid to her rifle. “Someone’s out there.”
They both went still. The desert stretched quiet, only the whisper of wind through the brush. Then, from somewhere ahead, came a soft crunch. It was the unmistakable sound of boots on gravel.
“Show yourself,” Marisol called.
A voice answered, calm and low. “No need for guns. I ain’t your enemy.”
Blaze straightened slowly, squinting toward the rocks ahead. A man stepped out from behind a cluster of boulders—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing worn buckskins and a faded bandana. His hair was long and black, streaked with dust, and his eyes were sharp as obsidian.
“Who are you?” Blaze asked.
“Name’s Chato Graycloud,” the man said. “I’m with the Apache tribe.”
Marisol didn’t lower her rifle. “You follow us?”
