PART 2 — THE WARRIOR WHO KNEW HER HUSBAND’S NAME

Clara McKee тιԍнтened her grip on the rifle.

The older warrior stopped several paces from her porch. He was tall, his face weathered by years beneath the desert sun. Silver strands ran through his long braids, and a narrow scar crossed his left cheek.

He looked at Clara’s rifle.

Then he looked into her eyes.

“Are you Clara McKee?”

His English was slow but clear.

“I am. Who wants to know?”

“My name is Red Elk. I have come looking for my son.”

Clara felt her stomach тιԍнтen.

“Your son?”

“The young man you brought here.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Red Elk glanced toward the cabin door.

“Is he alive?”

Clara lowered the rifle slightly.

“He was when I last checked.”

The old warrior closed his eyes briefly.

Behind him, the other riders remained mounted. Their expressions were difficult to read.

Red Elk turned back.

“May I see him?”

Clara hesitated.

“You brought more than a dozen men to my doorstep. You’ll forgive me if I’m not eager to invite everyone inside.”

Something almost resembling a smile touched his face.

“You speak honestly.”

“I’ve found that it saves time.”

Red Elk nodded.

“Then I will enter alone.”

Clara stepped aside, though she kept the rifle in her hands.

The old warrior entered the cabin and stopped near the fireplace. His eyes moved over the modest room, the kettle, the medicine bottles, and the folded blankets.

Then he noticed the cellar hatch.

“He is below?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because six men threatened to kill him yesterday. One of them was Tucker, and he has a habit of keeping his promises.”

Red Elk’s expression hardened at the name.

“Tucker?”

“You know him?”

“I know the kind of man he is.”

Clara opened the cellar hatch.

“He’s feverish. His leg is badly wounded. Don’t make him move.”

Red Elk descended carefully.

Clara followed with a lantern.

The young man was awake, propped against a folded blanket. When he saw the older warrior, his face changed.

“Father.”

Red Elk crossed the small room in two steps.

He knelt beside his son and placed a hand against his shoulder.

For several moments, the two said nothing.

Then the young man spoke in his own language.

Red Elk answered quietly.

Clara couldn’t understand their words, but she understood the emotion in their voices.

Relief.

Fear.

And something that sounded dangerously close to grief.

When they finished, Red Elk turned toward her.

“My son is called Little Hawk.”

Clara nodded.

“I’m Clara.”

“He tells me you found him beside the road.”

“I found him dying.”

“He says you stood against the men who wanted him ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

Clara looked away.

“I didn’t think about it.”

“Most people think too much before doing what is right.”

She almost smiled.

“Your son needs a proper doctor. I did what I could, but the arrow wound is serious.”

Red Elk studied the bandage.

“You have treated wounds before.”

“My husband was injured once. I learned too late how little I knew.”

The old warrior noticed the sadness in her voice.

“Your husband is gone?”

“Two years now.”

Red Elk bowed his head.

“I am sorry.”

Clara appreciated that he did not ask how it happened.

Instead, he looked at Little Hawk.

“We will take him home when he can travel.”

Clara nodded.

“That may take several days.”

“Then he will remain here.”

She looked at him sharply.

“And your men?”

“They will camp beyond the ridge. They will not trouble you.”

Red Elk climbed back up the ladder.

Before leaving, he stopped beside Clara.

“I owe you a debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“My son says you gave him water when he could no longer lift his head. You brought him inside when others wanted him ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. A debt like that cannot be dismissed.”

Clara shook her head.

“I didn’t save him for payment.”

“I know.”

He opened the door.

Then he paused.

“Tell me something, Clara McKee. Did your husband ever work near Dry Creek?”

Her expression changed.

“Why?”

“Because my son says the men who wounded him were searching for something. They asked about an old map.”

Clara went still.

“What map?”

Red Elk looked toward the mountains.

“The map that shows where the river once ran beneath the dry earth.”

Clara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.

Her husband, Samuel, had been a surveyor.

And before his death, he had spent months studying the land around Dry Creek.

She had believed his maps were ordinary work documents.

Until now.

By afternoon, Little Hawk’s fever had returned.

Clara sat beside him, changing the cloth on his forehead.

“You need to drink,” she said.

He managed a faint smile.

“You talk like my father.”

“Then your father must be a very stubborn man.”

Little Hawk chuckled, then winced.

Clara immediately helped him settle.

“Don’t make me regret saving you.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then he spoke a word.

“Nocomi.”

Clara frowned.

“You said that yesterday. What does it mean?”

He hesitated.

“Not a name. A word from my mother’s people.”

“What does it mean?”

He searched for the right English words.

“Woman who keeps the light.”

Clara stared at him.

“That’s a rather grand тιтle for someone who burns the bread.”

Little Hawk smiled.

For the first time since she had found him, he looked almost like an ordinary young man.

Then he reached beneath his blanket and produced a small leather pouch.

“Please hide this.”

Clara didn’t take it.

“What is it?”

“A reason they want me ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

She studied his face.

“Who?”

“Tucker. And the men who ride with him.”

Little Hawk opened the pouch.

Inside was a small brᴀss compᴀss, a folded paper, and a silver medallion bearing a symbol Clara recognized.

Her breath caught.

It was the same symbol that had been carved into the wooden box her husband kept beneath their bed.

Samuel had told her it belonged to his grandfather.

But the mark was unmistakable.

Clara looked at Little Hawk.

“Where did you get this?”

“My mother gave it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because she said a woman named Clara McKee would know what it meant.”

The cabin seemed to grow very quiet.

Clara slowly sat down.

“How could your mother know my name?”

Little Hawk closed his eyes.

“Because she knew your husband.”

That evening, Clara searched Samuel’s old trunk.

She found his surveyor’s tools, several worn notebooks, and a bundle of maps tied with twine.

At the bottom was a letter she had never seen.

It was addressed to Samuel McKee.

The handwriting belonged to a woman.

Samuel,

The men have discovered what we found beneath the dry creek bed. They are looking for the old water pᴀssage, and they will do anything to claim it.

Do not trust Tucker. He is not working alone.

If I cannot reach you before the next full moon, give the map to Red Elk. He will know what must be done.

The letter was signed:

Miriam.

Clara read it twice.

Then she looked toward the cellar.

Little Hawk’s mother had known her husband.

And Tucker had been searching for something Samuel had hidden.

A sudden knock rattled the front door.

Clara grabbed her rifle.

“Who is it?”

A man’s voice answered.

“Open up, Mrs. McKee.”

She recognized it immediately.

Tucker.

She glanced toward the cellar hatch.

Then back at the door.

“Go away.”

“I know you’ve got company.”

“Then you know I don’t want you here.”

Tucker laughed.

“I’m not asking to come in.”

A second voice spoke from behind him.

“Just tell us where the map is.”

Clara’s blood ran cold.

She had never mentioned a map to anyone.

Tucker had already learned about the letter.

And now he knew she had found it.

“You have until sunrise, Clara,” he called through the door. “After that, we’ll stop asking.”