The women spoke in low tones until their voices faded. One by one they curled under blankets. Even asleep, they stayed close, shoulders touching.
Near midnight, Reed heard a faint sound—metal against metal—small, accidental. His eyes cut to the floor near their blankets.
One of the women, the one clutching her ribs, had shifted, and something fell from her shawl. A small object, dull in the firelight.
Reed waited. He didn’t want to startle them. Then he leaned forward and saw it clearly: a brass cartridge casing, stamped with a marking he recognized.
Not Apache. Not common trade ammunition. The stamp belonged to a territorial unit Reed had once ridden with, a group men whispered about, even years later.
His throat tightened. He hadn’t seen that mark since he quit taking certain jobs. He hadn’t wanted to.
He looked at the sleeping women again, at their injuries, at the way they’d arrived on foot. A new thought formed, cold and precise.
They hadn’t just fled hunger. They’d fled men who carried rules like weapons and called it law.
Outside, wind pushed snow against the cabin walls. Reed listened for hooves, for voices, for the careless noise of pursuit.
At some point near dawn, the leader stirred. She sat up slowly and found Reed still awake, rifle still on his lap, eyes still fixed outward.
She didn’t look surprised. She looked like she expected it, like men who offer shelter usually stay awake for the price.
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