Chapter 2 - Dawn and Decisions
Dawn broke gray and cold, filtering pale light through the grease-paper windows of the cabin. The embers in the hearth were reduced to a fine gray ash, but the chill in the room was nothing compared to the reality waiting outside.
Cole was already awake, sitting at the rough wooden table with a whetstone in hand. The rhythmic shhh-shhh of steel sliding against stone filled the quiet cabin. Every few strokes, he paused to inspect the edge of his hunting knife, testing it with a scarred thumb.
Enola sat up from her pallet, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her ankle still throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but the swelling had subsided significantly thanks to the poultice Cole had prepared the night before. She watched him work for a moment, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept much; she had heard him pacing the floorboards during the early hours of the morning, keeping watch while the mountain slept.
"They won't come back in daylight," Enola said quietly, her voice hoarse from sleep as she pushed herself to her feet. "Men like that prefer the dark. They want the advantage."
Cole stopped the whetstone, lifting his head. "They were scouts or bounty hunters working out of the valley settlement. That means they have a camp down near the creek trail. If we stay here, we're sitting ducks."
"Then we leave," she said simply.
Cole shook his head, standing up and tucking the knife into his belt. "Your ankle isn't ready for a long march through rough brush, and leaving my supplies behind means we won't last three days in the high country. We need a better plan than running."
Enola crossed her arms, her chin lifting with defensive pride. "I didn't survive six weeks alone in these mountains by waiting to be cornered. If those men are tracking us, we can lead them into the upper ridges where the trails narrow. We can use the terrain."
Cole stared at her, caught off guard by the fierce resolve in her voice. Most people he had encountered would have panicked, crying for mercy or demanding an impossible escape. Enola was strategizing.
"This isn't an Apache raiding party you're dealing with," Cole cautioned, his voice firm but not unkind. "These are desperate men with firearms and a grudge. They won't fight fair, and they won't quit just because we make it difficult."
"Neither will I," she retorted, stepping closer to the table. "My brother is out there somewhere, or what's left of him. I didn't come this far to hide in a wooden box while strangers decide whether I live or die."
The mention of her brother hung in the air, a reminder of the raw grief that drove her relentless search. Cole let out a slow breath, recognizing the stubborn streak in her that mirrored his own. He walked over to the small wall shelf, picking up a spare leather holster and an old cap-and-ball revolver he hadn't worn in years.
He held it out toward her.
Enola looked down at the weapon, then up at Cole's face.
"Do you know how to use one?" he asked.
"My father taught me before the soldiers took our camp," she said, her voice dropping an octave. She reached out and took the heavy iron pistol from his hand, checking the cylinder with practiced familiarity. The cold weight of the weapon felt both foreign and reassuring against her palm.
"Good," Cole said, turning toward the door. "Because we're going to need more than prayer if we're going to survive what's coming."
Before he could lift the bar, a sharp rap echoed against the wooden door—not the heavy pounding of angry men, but a series of quick, deliberate knocks.
Cole froze, his hand dropping instantly to the handle of his knife. Enola slipped the revolver behind her belt, flattening her back against the interior wall near the stone hearth.
"Matthews!" a voice called from outside. It wasn't the scarred bounty hunter from the night before. This voice was older, strained, carrying the distinct wheeze of a man who had ridden hard up a steep incline. "Open up, man. It's Sheriff Miller. I know you're in there."
Cole exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Enola. A territorial sheriff showing up at an isolated cabin just twelve hours after a threat from bounty hunters was either incredible luck or a very dangerous trap.
With a cautious scowl, Cole slid the bar back and pulled the door open.
Sheriff Thomas Miller stood on the porch, a heavy wool coat dusted with frost, his badge pinned crookedly to his chest. His horse stood panting at the fence line, lathered in white foam. The older lawman looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and anxious.
"Thank God you're still here, Cole," Miller blurted out, stepping past the threshold uninvited before Cole could block the doorway. "You've got bounty scum crawling all over the lower timber. Word's out in town about an Apache fugitive hiding up on your ridge, and half the cutthroats from the county line are heading your way."
The sheriff stopped short as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the cabin, landing squarely on Enola standing by the hearth with her hand resting near her waist.
May you like
Miller's expression hardened, his hand twitching instinctively toward his own sidearm. "Well, I'll be damned. She is here."
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