Montgomery’s men had chosen the western approach because the drifting snow hid them from the ranch house.
Martha had chosen it because only three cattle could pass abreast.
Behind her, she had dragged two lengths of old logging chain from the sled and fastened them between exposed rocks at knee height. The chains were nearly invisible beneath blowing snow, but they formed a barrier strong enough to stop panicked cattle from charging through her.
The men could still cut them.
But first they would have to reach them.
And Martha.
The rider on the left drew his revolver.
Martha shifted the Winchester two inches.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
The broad rider stared.
“You won’t shoot.”
Martha’s dark eyes remained on his hands.
“I spent ten years running a boarding house near the Missouri freight yards.”
The rider looked confused.
She continued.
“I have watched drunk men lose fingers over card games. I have stitched knife cuts, set broken wrists, and buried my husband after cholera took him in two days.”
The Winchester did not move.
“I am not frightened by three thieves in scarves.”
The third rider spat into the snow.
“We’re not thieves.”
“Then you have chosen a strange hour to cut another man’s fence.”
Silence.
One heifer tried moving forward.
The hidden chain stopped her.
The animals behind pressed, then spread sideways.
Good.
Martha needed the herd thinking about something other than the men driving them.
She slowly reached into her coat pocket with one hand.
The broad rider’s revolver appeared instantly.
“Stop!”
Martha froze.
Then brought out a small chunk of hardened pork fat.
She tossed it behind her.
Goliath, the enormous draft horse, lowered his head and caught the scent.
The animal stepped sideways.
The freight sled shifted.
A wooden crate slid from it and broke open.
Dried apple pieces scattered across the snow.
The nearest heifers smelled them.
Their heads turned.
The herd’s movement changed.
Not much.
Enough.
Martha had packed those apples for exactly that reason.
The men did not understand until the lead animals stopped pushing toward the gulch and began angling toward the scent.
The broad rider cursed.
“Drive them!”
The man on the left cracked a whip.
The cattle surged.
Martha fired.
Not at the riders.
At the lantern hanging from the broad man’s saddle.
Glass exploded.
Oil spilled harmlessly into snow.
Darkness swallowed one side of the pass.
The cattle recoiled from the sound.
Then turned away from the riders.
The third rider shouted and kicked his horse forward.
Martha lowered the rifle toward him.
His horse, already frightened, saw the woman and the chain and refused.