A dust cloud boils up over a dry hill. The Riders, whoever they are, will be here in minutes. And I’ve just told my captors my secret.

Bennett runs around to the front of the Jeep and pulls out his gun.

I struggle forward, the ropes on my wrists digging roughly into my skin. “Let the boy go! All you need is me. Let him go!”

Bennett never looks at me. His face is lit with joy like discovering a wad of silver buried in his back yard. I’ve made a mistake. He won’t free Ethan. He’ll make a fortune off both of us. And I’m running out of time. I scoot over to Ethan and nudge him with my foot. “Wake up! Ethan, get up!” He moans, but I can’t wake him.

I tug on the cord at my wrist. It’s tight, but if I have time to work on it, I could probably wiggle it loose. I pull until my skin’s raw, but I’m nowhere close to free.

Then a truck, welded together from pieces of others, chugs toward us. In its wake are two skinny tan horses, with a rider each. I count my adversaries—two in the cab, two on horseback. Four men. Even with free hands, my odds aren’t good against four armed men. I work on the twine at my wrists as the men jump out, slam doors, or sling their legs over their horses.

The Riders are the strangest group of men I’ve ever seen. They’re clad in animal-hide loincloths and shapeless moccasins. They have dark brown braids adorned with feathers or with bones coiling down their backs. Their arms, chests and faces are streaked with stripes of ashy gray, brown and dried blood in alternating patterns. A phrase flashes through my head—war paint—though I’ve no idea where it came from. The two on horseback could be twins, though one’s taller than the other. One Rider, emerging from the truck, has a thin bone—a coyote rib perhaps—shoved through his nostrils. Another wears a necklace of white squares. The closer he strides, the more sure I am they’re human teeth.

In contrast to their basic dress, they could be an armory ad. The squat leader with a small belly sagging over his loincloth has an antique shotgun slung over his bare back. The second man, with a network of slashing scars running the length of his chest, carries a bulky semi-automatic rifle in his bear-like hands. I haven’t seen one of those in a long time. The twins each hold wooden spears.