Pritchard thanked the womenfolk for the excellent dinner, collected his hat, and left the saloon. He strolled through town to the livery, where he had been lodging, when a lone figure stepped out from the darkness to block his entrance. Both his hands instinctively grasped the walnut-stocked grips of the Remington revolvers belted around his waist.

“Good evening, Ranger Atherton,” Bina said. His hands, and his posture, relaxed.

“Good evening, Miss Bina,” Pritchard returned the greeting.

“I’m sorry to have startled you.”

“No harm done,” he said. “What brings you down to the stable?”

“You,” she said as she stepped in to kiss him.

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Afterward, when they could catch their breath again, Bina and Pritchard lay naked on the blankets in the livery’s loft. She had released her braid. Her long dark hair flowed over his stomach, while her cheek rested against his chest.

“That was unexpected,” Pritchard said.

“The Apache do not believe in an afterlife,” she said. “We live only for the day. I wanted you, today. Who knows? After Major Stiles comes tomorrow, today may be all we have.”

“You’re only half-Apache,” Pritchard said. “Doesn’t your other half contemplate what comes after your death?”

“If death finds me tomorrow,” Bina said, “I will know then, will I not?”

“I reckon so. Speaking of your death,” Pritchard went on, “why are you still here? You weren’t in town when Major Stiles and his gang rode in before. You don’t have to be in Magdalena now. You could leave, and they’d be none the wiser. Why not go someplace where you’ll be safe?”

“I cannot,” she said. “When I was a little girl, I had a powerful vision. In this vision, I saw myself fighting in the sun alongside the Shadow Man. I did not understand the vision until I met you. Many others of my tribe saw you riding in with the Rangers. They saw the shadow, too. Now you know why I must stay and fight.”

“I don’t understand,” a confused Pritchard said. Bina lifted her head, rested her chin on his chest, and looked into his eyes.

“You are the Shadow Man,” she said. “You are cursed. Have you not felt it, circling over you like a vulture?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“The Shadow of Death,” she said. “It looms above you. It feeds not on you, but on what you kill. The shadow also knows you are not who you say you are. It keeps your true spirit captive, to enslave you, so you will continue feeding it.”

“That’s plumb crazy,” Pritchard said.

“Is it?” she asked. “Tell me,” she said, “how many men have you killed?”

“I don’t—”

“Far more, I suspect,” she interrupted him, “than even Captain Franchard or your fellow Rangers know. You feed the shadow well. This is one of the reasons it has chosen you.”