In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything
Kincaid’s face was a mask of furious triumph, illuminated by the monstrous orange glow of his burning barn. His rifle was already pointed, steady in his hand. The sixteen armed riders behind him were a formidable barrier, stretching from one mesa wall to the other, blocking the narrow canyon entrance.
“Surrender, Brand!” Kincaid’s voice boomed, sharp and clear over the crackle of the fire. “Return the girl and the sacred papers! You cannot escape the Lord’s justice!”
Nalin clung to me, her small frame rigid. The horses shifted restlessly under us, their nostrils flaring at the smell of smoke and fear. Blythe, beside me, looked like he might bolt right then and there.
My mind raced. We couldn’t fight sixteen armed men. Not head-on. Not with two horses and a girl who was barely recovered.
I drew my Remington. Without aiming at any man, I fired three rapid shots into the air above their heads. The sharp reports echoed off the canyon walls, startling the lead horses. They reared, whinnying in panic, throwing the line of riders into momentary disarray.
“Now, Blythe!” I yelled.
“Which way?” he gasped, his eyes wide with fear.
“North! Towards the stagecoach route! Divide them!”
Blythe didn’t need to be told twice. He spurred his horse, veering sharply left, away from the opening I’d created, and galloped towards the northern trail, disappearing quickly into the darkness, his satchel of ledgers bouncing against his side.
“After him! The ledgers!” Kincaid roared, pointing a furious hand. “Don’t let him get to the rail station!”
Four of Kincaid’s riders, including Eli Rust, broke from the line, thundering after Blythe. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
“Ride!” I shouted to Nalin, digging my spurs into our horse’s flanks.
We burst through the temporary gap, the horse leaping over a low sagebrush. We plunged into the dark sandstone arroyos, the labyrinthine dry creek beds that snaked through the Gila badlands. The scent of dust and juniper filled the air, replacing the acrid smoke.
Behind us, Kincaid’s voice cut through the night, a chilling promise.
“After them! Twelve riders, pursue into the badlands! Neither the girl nor the drifter will live to see a territorial courtroom!”
The sound of hooves hammered behind us, growing fainter as we dove deeper into the winding maze of rock and sand. Kincaid had chosen. He wanted Nalin and her receipt. He wanted me silenced. And he had a dozen men, fueled by fanaticism and bounty, on our heels. The desert, vast and unforgiving, stretched out before us.
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