Corora, acting on instinct, fired her rifle through the door. The heavy .45-70 caliber bullet struck another of the gunmen in the chest. She pulled the lever, chambering another round, her movements fluid and decisive. She was no longer simply defending her home. She was fighting alongside the men who had come to pay their respects.
Gotchimin didn’t take cover. He remained motionless, a fearsome figure directing his men with hand gestures, his rifle shrieking deadly at the disorganized group. He was protecting her, drawing enemy fire upon himself, a leader leading from the front lines.
The firefight was brutal and brief. Croft’s men were mercenaries, not soldiers. Facing an invisible and disciplined enemy, and watching their comrades fall, their whiskey-fueled courage evaporated. Within minutes, half of them were dead or wounded. The survivors fled, galloping at breakneck speed toward the supposed safety of the city.
Sterling Croft found himself alone, his horse slipping from his grasp. He scrambled after the animal’s body, his fine clothes covered in dust and blood, his face a mask of terror. He fumbled to reload his pistol, his hands shaking.
Silence fell suddenly and completely, just as the explosion of violence had. The only sounds were the groans of the wounded and the nervous neighing of a horse. Kora emerged from her cabin, her rifle still warm.
Gochi and his warriors emerged from the shadows, converging on Croft’s position. They surrounded him, seven silent, stern-faced judges. Croft looked up from his pathetic shelter, his eyes wide with fear.
He saw Kora standing next to Gochimin, rifle in hand. He saw the cold fury in his eyes and the utter contempt on the Apache chief’s face. In that instant, he realized he hadn’t simply lost a firefight. He had fundamentally misjudged everything.
He had seen a single woman and seven savages. He had not seen a queen and her royal guard.
“This land is protected, Croft,” Kora said, her voice resonating with newfound authority. “By me and my future husband.”
The words spoken in the heat of battle and in its aftermath sealed her choice. She had not made her decision in quiet contemplation, but in a cauldron of smoke and gunfire. Gotchimin looked at her, and in her dark eyes she saw not only honor and duty, but a fierce, burning pride.
The serpent of the throat had been defeated, and in its place, a bond forged by a blood debt was now sealed in the fires of battle.
The aftermath of the battle was bleak and silent. The moon rose, casting a ghostly aura over the valley and illuminating the bodies of the men Sterling Croft had led to their deaths. There was no celebration of victory. Only the bitter struggle for survival.
Two of Gotchimin’s warriors had suffered minor injuries, and Kora, without hesitation, pulled out the medical supplies her father had saved. She disinfected and bandaged their wounds with a firm, gentle hand. Her touch was a silent message of alliance.
Gotchimin took care of Croft. He didn’t kill him. Killing him would have been an act of war, which would have drawn retaliation from the white world. Instead, he brought justice to the Apache.
He and his men took Croft’s weapons and boots, leaving him only a canteen of water.
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