Nahimana rode her own horse.
Ethan had expected otherwise.
That assumption lasted about three seconds.
She swung into the saddle without assistance, adjusted a rifle strapped beside her leg, and looked at him.
“You are slow.”
Ethan stared.
“I haven’t even mounted.”
“Exactly.”
He looked toward Chaska.
The chief seemed deeply pleased with himself.
Ethan mounted Luther.
They rode north.
For the first hour, Nahimana said nothing.
Neither did Ethan.
He liked silence.
Usually.
This silence felt competitive.
Eventually he asked, “Do you always ride that fast?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To arrive sooner.”
“That is difficult to argue with.”
She looked toward him.
“You talk more than I expected.”
“You barely know me.”
“I expected silence.”
“Why?”
“My niece said you spoke little.”
“She was half-conscious.”
“She notices things.”
Ethan smiled.
“I noticed.”
They traveled through red canyon country before climbing toward open scrubland.
By noon, heat pressed down again.
Nahimana stopped beside a shallow wash.
“Water.”
Ethan checked the sun.
“We can ride another hour.”
She dismounted.
“We could.”
Then she led her horse toward shade.
Ethan remained in the saddle.
“Are you stopping anyway?”
“Yes.”
He sighed and dismounted.
They drank beneath a mesquite tree.
Nahimana removed dried meat from a pouch.
Ethan ate.
After several minutes, she asked, “Why Oklahoma?”
He nearly choked.
“What?”
“You came from Oklahoma.”
“How do you know?”
“Your saddle.”
“My saddle says Oklahoma?”
“The maker’s stamp.”
Ethan looked down.
Small letters marked the leather.
TULSA TERRITORY SADDLERY.
He laughed despite himself.
“I thought you were reading my soul.”
“That too.”
Ethan stopped smiling.
Nahimana waited.
He took another bite.
“Family.”
“What about them?”
“Gone.”
She did not offer sympathy immediately.
He appreciated that.
“How?”
Ethan looked toward the horizon.
“Complicated.”
Nahimana nodded.
No pressure.
No questions.
That surprised him more than anything.
They continued.
Late afternoon, clouds built.
No storm.
Only shadow.
Ethan’s ranch appeared near sunset.
A small wooden house.
Barn.
Corral.
Wind-bent cottonwoods.
Twenty cattle clustered near a half-empty trough.
Ethan swore.
He dismounted before Luther stopped fully.
Nahimana followed.
“What?”
“Water’s lower than it should be.”
They ran toward the trough.
The supply pipe from his spring had slowed to a trickle.
Ethan knelt.
Mud around the connection.
He touched it.
Fresh.
Someone had moved the valve.
Nahimana crouched beside him.
“This happened today.”
“How do you know?”
“Tracks.”
Ethan looked.
He saw boot marks.