The corrals had to be built first. Not that Trace was in a hurry; the northern ranchers needed time to come with the law. Just past dawn they set out: Trace, White Eagle, and half the Walapai riders. The rest of the Indians remained out of sight, keeping an eye on Mae and Comstock, as their chief promised. Despite Trace’s hope, there was no opportunity to speak with Mae. Comstock stayed too near the camp, watching everything like a hawk. No, there was nothing to do but trust Preacher to take her in hand while they all played out their hands. They followed the timberline north-northeast to a gap in the rocks that would soon form the funnel-shaped makeshift corral they’d devised, emptying into a larger makeshift corral of wood that they were set to build. The landscape was made for such a horse trap, sheer-faced rock on one side, chest-high split rails they’d build on the other. The horses—there were fifty to a hundred they’d counted—would have no choice but to run the narrow gantlet and then be forced through a gate admitting no more than five abreast.
