run of the arrow-chapter-4-The Ambush at the Gila River

Quinn
didn't pause. He knew time was short; the Comancheros wouldn't stay
drunk forever around the fire.

But
before he could move with Tommy, a movement in the shadows made Quinn
freeze.

"Get
behind me, Tommy," Quinn murmured, his rifle moving in one
smooth motion.

From
the darkness, a figure emerged—a shadow of a man, lean and quick,
wearing clothes of rough leather and canvas, a wide-brimmed hat
obscuring his face. He carried no rifle, only a long, wickedly curved
knife held low. The man had clearly seen Quinn and Tommy trying to
leave.

The
Comanchero spoke in a harsh, guttural Spanish that the borderlands
knew well.

"Well,
well. Look what the night dragged in. You steal my prize, white-man?
The small one was mine, a fine profit."

Quinn
lowered the rifle barrel fractionally, but his finger stayed tight on
the trigger. "The boy is free. Move aside."

"Free?"
The Comanchero laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Freedom is for
rich men, amigo. I will take the boy back, and perhaps your rifle and
your horse, too."

He
didn't wait for a reply, lunging forward with terrifying speed, the
knife arcing low toward Quinn's midsection.

 

Quinn
sidestepped, the heavy rifle now a clumsy weapon in the close
confines. He shoved the barrel hard against the man's chest, knocking
the breath out of him, and drove his knee into the man's stomach. The
Comanchero grunted, staggering back, but his knife hand was
relentless, slashing upward. Quinn felt the tear of fabric across his
left sleeve.

No
time for shooting. The noise will bring the Comancheros down on them.

Quinn
let the rifle drop, drawing his own knife. The air was thick with the
scent of adrenaline and river dampness. The Comanchero was a blur of
motion, trained in the brutal, efficient knife fighting of the
lawless border camps. He tried to lock Quinn’s knife arm, forcing a
deadly wrestling match in the dark.

"You
should have stayed away, white-man!" the Comanchero hissed.

Quinn
didn't speak. He used his strength, pinning the Comanchero's knife
arm against his own side. With his free hand, Quinn slammed the hilt
of his Bowie into the bridge of the man's nose. The Comanchero
gasped, his head snapping back, his grip loosening.

That
was all Quinn needed. With a vicious, practiced twist, Quinn plunged
his knife low and fast, ending the fight instantly and silently. The
Comanchero crumpled, his body disappearing into the deep shadows near
the water’s edge.

The
only sound was the rushing of the Gila River and the quick, shallow
breathing of Quinn. He retrieved his rifle and wiped the Bowie clean
on the dead man's hair, then re-sheathed it. He was bleeding
slightly, a shallow cut across his forearm, but nothing serious.

He
walked back to where Tommy was frozen, wide-eyed, by the door.

"What...
what was that, mister?" Tommy whispered, his voice shaking.

"Just
a snake," Quinn said, his eyes scanning the surrounding
darkness. "A snake that came too close to your safe haven."

He
picked up the boy and placed him back on his shoulders, tightening
his grip. "Close your eyes, Tommy. It's time to go home."

 

The
silence of the night was now fractured by their footsteps as they
walked away from the camp and onto the moonlit trail, heading toward
his horse—and the final reckoning.

The
cold desert air bit at Quinn's face as he hauled Tommy onto the back
of his horse, Roxanne. The escape had been messy, a quick blur of
shadows and the muffled sound of a single, well-placed knife strike.
Now, they were out, but not yet safe.

Quinn
swung himself up into the saddle, settling Tommy directly in front of
him. The kid was small and shaking with a silent, deep fear that cut
Quinn to the bone.

"Listen
up, son," Quinn murmured, his voice a low rumble close to the
boy's ear. "We got a long ride. You can't fall off. If you fall,
the coyotes will be on you before I can stop Roxanne."

He
reached to his side and pulled free a length of tough, braided rope
he kept looped around his saddle horn. His hands worked quickly,
efficiently. He passed the rope under the boy's slight torso, just
above the hips, and then around the thick horn of the saddle itself.
With a few swift tugs, he secured the knots. The boy was now
tethered, an extension of the saddle, locked onto Roxanne’s back.

"It
ain't comfortable, but you ain't going' nowhere," Quinn said,
testing the tension.

The
moment the knot was tight, Quinn felt the shift in his readiness. His
hands, which had been clutching the boy, were now free, his fingers
already wrapping around the smooth, worn stock of his Winchester
repeater, which rested across the pommel. He chambered a round with a
practised flick of his wrist.

"Hold
tight," he instructed. He nudged Roxanne's flanks with his
heels.

The
mare, sensing the urgency in her rider, broke into a ground-eating
canter. They flew past the scrub brush and scattered boulders, the
camp lights shrinking rapidly behind them. The rhythm of the mare's
hooves was the only sound, a steady thump-thump-thump against the
vast silence of the dark canyon.

Quinn
scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowed against the starlight, his
rifle ready. Any sign of pursuit—a distant rider, a flicker of
light, a plume of dust—and he'd be ready to stop Roxanne, swing his
rifle up, and send a warning shot, or worse, back down the trail. The
boy was secure. His hands were free. They were running now, and only
the rifle could keep them alive.

 

 

The
sun had long dipped below the harsh, jagged peaks of the Mountains,
leaving the high desert air crisp and cool. A small, spitting
campfire provided the only warm light in the gathering darkness,
casting long, shifting shadows of the two figures beside it.

Quinn,
his face weathered like old saddle leather and his eyes holding the
distant look of a man who’d seen too much dust and blood, sat on a
log, nursing a cup of black coffee. He wore a simple, dust-caked
denim shirt and faded trousers, his Colt Peacemaker holstered at his
hip catching the firelight now and then.

Across
from him, cross-legged on the dirt, was Tommy, a boy no older than
eight. He was small for his age, with an earnest, hopeful look in his
eyes that Quinn found increasingly difficult to meet. The boy
clutched a worn wooden soldier, its paint long chipped away.

The
crackle of the mesquite wood filled the silence until Tommy finally
spoke, his voice small but clear.

“Quinn?”

“Yeah,
kid?” Quinn took a slow sip of his coffee.

“Are
we gonna find them soon? My mum and dad, I mean.”

Quinn
stared into the dancing flames. This was the question. The one he
always dreaded. He cleared his throat, buying a moment.

“It’s
a big territory, Tommy. Big and wild.”

“But
we’re looking, right? You said we were going to the fort, and
they’ll know where they are.”

A
knot tightened in Quinn’s chest. He remembered the scene three days
ago: a burned-out wagon twenty miles back, stripped bare. And the
bodies.

He
knew where Tommy’s parents were.

His
mother had been killed quickly—a bullet in the back while trying to
run. The Comancheros hadn’t wasted their time with her. His father,
however, a man named Jasper, they had taken their time with. Quinn
had tracked the sign, a trail of discarded implements and boot
prints, leading to a wagon. Jasper had been tied to the spokes of a
wagon wheel, tortured for information on what little money they had,
and left for the buzzards. It was a Comanchero signature, a message
written in blood and suffering.

Quinn
forced a rough gentleness into his tone. “Tommy, listen to me.”

The
boy looked up, his expression innocent and trusting.

“Things
out here… they move fast. People, too. Your folks, they were good
people. They were… they were probably lookin’ for a safer place
for you. A better place.”

“But
are they alive?” Tommy insisted, his lower lip beginning to tremble
slightly.

Quinn
set his coffee cup down. The simple lie was impossible. He couldn't
crush that hope, but he couldn't maintain the facade much longer. He
looked past the boy, into the impenetrable blackness beyond the
firelight.

“Your
ma…” Quinn paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “She
was brave, Tommy. Your dad… he was a tough man. They’re free now,
kid. Free from the trail, free from the worry.”

He
didn't need to say more. The way he avoided the word 'alive' and the
sudden, awful finality in his tone seemed to be understood, even by
an eight-year-old. The boy’s eyes filled with tears, but he blinked
them back, clutching his wooden soldier tight against his chest.

“Oh,”
was all Tommy said, a breath of air leaving his lungs.

 

The
sudden, awful silence that followed was broken by a sound that made
every muscle in Quinn's body tense and coil. A low, hooting sound.

It
was the call of a great horned owl, a distinct, five-note call.
Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo.

Too
long. Too perfect.

Quinn’s
hand instinctively drifted to the grip of his revolver. A moment
later, from the opposite direction, another call answered the first.
A shorter, four-note hoot. Then, from the left flank, a mockingbird’s
chirp. Quick, sharp, and unnatural in the cold, clear night.

Quinn’s
eyes narrowed, scanning the black line of trees about forty yards
away. This was no owl. This was no mockingbird. This was a signal. A
perimeter being drawn. He recognized the sounds—familiar, cold, and
predatory.

“Tommy,”
Quinn said, his voice flat and low, stripped of all warmth. “Listen
to me, and don’t look up. Just keep looking at the fire.”

“W-what
is it?”

“It’s
time to move. And we gotta be quiet as shadows.”

Quinn
slowly rose, stamping out the fire and drawing the Colt from its
holster, the metallic snick a harsh sound in the sudden, charged
stillness. He didn’t need to see them; he could feel them—the
pressure of unseen eyes closing in.

It
wasn’t Comancheros this time. The signaling was too disciplined,
too sharp. Indians.

He
looked down at the boy, whose eyes were wide with a fear far deeper
than the grief he’d just swallowed.

“We’re
leaving, son. Now.”