Part Two

Among the young braves in the camp was a fierce warrior named Cuchillo, which meant “Knife”—a name given to him by his father, who had trained him to be unmatched in hand-to-hand combat. For a long time, everyone knew that Cuchillo and Dahteste were deeply in love.

One morning, Cuchillo nervously approached Chief Wild Bull’s tepee to formally request Dahteste’s hand in marriage. The Chief had long seen this day coming. Yet, ever since his beloved wife had passed away, his daughter had been his constant companion and comfort. It was difficult to let her go.

In the end, paternal love and common sense prevailed. Though he hesitated, a proud smile broke across his weathered face as he granted his blessing. Dahteste, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping from just outside the hide flap, rushed into the tepee and threw her arms around her father’s neck.

“Thank you, Papa!” she cried joyfully.

News of the betrothal spread like wildfire. White Star was the first to rush to her friend’s lodge to congratulate the radiant couple. Looking at Cuchillo, she grinned. “Well, I suppose I’m not losing a sister—I’m gaining a brother. And a remarkably brave one at that.” The warriors nearby chuckled at her clever play on words.

White Star threw herself into learning the intricacies of Apache matrimonial customs. She learned about the sacred Blanket Ceremony. In this ritual, the bride and groom are initially wrapped separately in deep blue blankets, representing their independent past lives. After the medicine woman blesses their union, the blue blankets are cast aside, and the couple is wrapped together in a single, pristine white blanket—symbolizing their new, shared life of peace, trust, and happiness.

Determined to provide the best for her sister, Al-Jay rode into a nearby trading post accompanied by an escort of eight braves. She purchased three beautiful ceremonial blankets and a fourth, vibrant red one as a personal gift for the Chief.

When she presented it to Wild Bull upon her return, the old Chief smiled warmly. “You remembered my favorite color, White Star. Thank you.”

The wedding was a spectacular affair, attended by the entire tribe. The Medicine Woman and the council elders conducted the sacred rites under a clear sky, and the festivities lasted for days.

In the weeks that followed, Al-Jay had to adjust to a new reality. Her dearest friend was now a wife, naturally spending her time building a home with her husband. Sensing Al-Jay’s sudden isolation, four young Apache women—Winona, Tallulah, Chimalis, and Kaya—began seeking her out, inviting her to gather herbs and wash linens by the river. Al-Jay deeply appreciated the kindness, and soon, the five of them became an inseparable, merry band. On many afternoons, Dahteste would sneak away from her marital duties to join them, restoring their old laughter.

Yet, underneath the joy of her new life, a dark ember remained unextinguished in Al-Jay’s heart. One afternoon, she walked away from the laughing group, sitting alone on a rocky outcrop to finalize the details of her revenge. She had been lectured many times in her youth about the fruitlessness of vengeance, but forgiveness was a language she refused to speak. On this matter, her mind was an iron trap.

Seeing her brooding alone, the girls grew worried and urged Dahteste to go to her. Approaching the outcrop, Dahteste sat quietly beside her.

Al-Jay looked at her, offering a wry, gentle smile to soften her words. “And who invited you out here? Or are you already tired of being a wife?”

The two women shared a fierce hug. When they pulled apart, Al-Jay’s voice choked with a sudden, dangerous intensity. “It’s time, Dahteste. It’s time to execute my revenge. Starting with my uncle.”

Dahteste gripped her arm firmly. “I know your plan, White Star. It is incredibly dangerous. I will not try to stop you, because your fury is just. Instead, I am going to help you. I have already spoken to Cuchillo, and he has recruited three of his most trusted braves. A party of six is small enough to move like ghosts, yet strong enough to finish the deed. Tonight, we meet in my tepee to map out the attack. Agreed?”

Al-Jay nodded, a cold satisfaction settling in her chest. “Agreed.”

That night, huddled over a map drawn in the dirt of Cuchillo’s lodge, the plan took shape. Al-Jay knew her uncle’s ranch perfectly; she had ridden those fields since childhood and knew exactly where he would pen his prized breeding bull for safekeeping.

“The pastures are heavily guarded,” Al-Jay whispered, pointing to the dirt map. “But there is a blind spot near the western riverbed. We must strike during the New Moon phase, thirteen days from now, when the sky is pitch black. I want the bull brought down silently with our bows. We will skin it on the spot, take the meat to feed our people, and leave the hide draped over his fence as proof that his prize is gone. We will carry our rifles, but only as a last resort if we have to fight our way out. This is my battle, not yours. Are you truly prepared for this?”

Cuchillo looked at his braves, then back at Al-Jay. “An Apache does not turn away a sister in need of justice. We ride with you.”

Thirteen days later, under a moonless, ink-black sky, the party prepared to depart. Each rider led a second, spare horse to ensure they could swap mounts to prevent exhaustion and easily carry the heavy load of meat back to the mountains. They slipped out of the sleeping camp long before dawn.

They rode hard and fast, making excellent time. By evening, they rested their horses by a secluded riverbed just outside the borders of the Cavendish estate. They lit no fires, eating cold rations in the darkness to ensure no smoke would betray their position.

Once midnight passed, they crept toward the ranch. To Al-Jay’s delight, her uncle’s arrogance had gotten the better of him; he had only posted two sentries on night watch. Waiting until the guards rode to the far eastern fence line, the raiders slipped through the shadows of the corral.

Al-Jay stepped into the enclosure, drawing her heavy Apache bow. The massive prize bull shifted in the dark, its hot breath pluming in the cool night air. Al-Jay took a deep breath, pulled the cord to her cheek, and released.

The arrow flew true. With a dull thud, the bull collapsed into the straw with barely a sound. Working with breathless, practiced speed, the braves skinned the beast and carved the choice cuts of meat, packing them tightly into the leather panniers. Before leaving, Al-Jay took the heavy hide and draped it prominently over the main gate.

By daybreak, the raiding party had put miles of rugged terrain between themselves and the ranch.

Back at the estate, the morning sun would reveal the grim scene. Al-Jay could perfectly picture her Uncle Harrold in a fit of apocalyptic rage, screaming for blood and cursing the air, completely unaware that the ghost who had ruined him was the very niece he had defrauded.

When the exhausted but victorious party arrived back at the Apache camp, the people cheered at the massive bounty of fresh meat. A great feast was prepared for that very night. As Al-Jay sat among her people, taking a bite of the rich, roasted meat, she smiled broadly.

“My friends, my family,” Al-Jay declared, raising a cup. “Tonight, you are eating the most expensive cut of beef you will ever relish. Eat up, and enjoy!”

As the laughter of the feast died down, Chief Wild Bull turned his sharp eyes toward her. “Your heart seems lighter, White Star. Is your campaign of revenge finished, or do further shadows occupy your mind?”

Al-Jay’s smile faded, replaced by an icy resolve. “Chief Wild Bull, there is one final strike to deliver. I intend to burn the massive cotton crops belonging to Theodore Manasseh—the mastermind behind my ruin, and the ruin of countless other families who suffered at his hands.”

The Chief leaned forward, intrigued. “And how does a Warrior Princess plan to burn hundreds of acres of heavily guarded fields?”

“Chief, have you ever heard of the white man’s Holy Bible?” Al-Jay asked. Wild Bull nodded slowly. “There is a story within it of a judge named Samson. To exact revenge upon his enemies, he caught three hundred foxes, tied their tails together in pairs, and fastened a burning torch to each knot. He released them into the standing grain, and by morning, the entire harvest was reduced to ash.”

She leaned closer to the fire. “I plan to do the same—but without the cruelty to animals. We will use our Apache bows to shoot arrows dipped in boiling black pitch. We will unleash a hail of fire into the fields at midnight and leave the crops to burn themselves to the ground. But to cover that much acreage before the guards can react, I will need a war party of twenty-five braves. Will the tribe stand with me?”

Chief Wild Bull looked slightly insulted by the question. He stood tall, throwing his shoulders back. “There is no need to ask your family if we will stand by you, White Star. We ride together.”

With his backing, the war council immediately began engineering a flawless strategy to ensure total destruction of the fields while ensuring every brave would return home without a scratch.

The seasons shifted, and the blistering heat of summer reached its peak. Al-Jay knew the cotton fields would be bone-dry and ripe for harvest—or, in her case, ripe for total destruction.

She embarked on a final scouting expedition, accompanied by Dahteste and Cuchillo. While the married couple rode openly into the town to purchase supplies, Al-Jay skirted the outskirts of the plantations, mapping the guard rotations and checking the dryness of the crops. They spent a quiet night in a hidden camp under the stars before racing back to the safety of the mountains.

Upon her return, Al-Jay called a final war meeting, inviting Chief Wild Bull to preside over the council. The scouts confirmed that they could not afford to wait; if they delayed even two days, Manasseh’s labor crews would begin harvesting the cotton, rendering the plan useless.

The war party departed the camp long before dawn. Two days later, they rode back into the Sierra Blancas under the cover of night, the distant southern horizon still glowing with a faint, smoky orange hue. Theodore Manasseh’s empire had been reduced to smoke and cinders.

A week later, using the excuse of purchasing new winter blankets for herself and Dahteste, Al-Jay rode boldly into the territory town. She moved through the boardwalks unconcerned, looking as free and innocent as a summer breeze.

While at the general store, she ran into an old family friend. The friend gasped, asking where she had been hiding for the past year. Al-Jay offered a beautifully fabricated lie about living with distant relatives in New Mexico, which completely satisfied the gossip.

The friend leaned in close, eager to share the latest scandalous news. She told Al-Jay all about the mysterious, gruesome death of Harrold Cavendish’s prized bull, and the catastrophic arson that had utterly bankrupted Theodore Manasseh. The friend whispered that the U.S. Marshals were investigating, but the law didn’t have a single clue as to who was responsible or why the attacks had occurred.

Al-Jay played the part of the shocked, innocent Southern lady perfectly, gasping in all the right places.

When she returned to the hidden mountain sanctuary, she shared the news with the council. The tepee erupted in triumphant cheers; they were entirely safe, completely untraceable ghosts of the desert.

Not long after, Al-Jay found herself courted by a young, honorable Apache warrior whom she had grown to deeply admire. Their courtship was brief but filled with genuine affection, and soon, they were wed under the sacred white blanket of the tribe.

Lady Jane Cavendish had lost her childhood home, her title, and her inheritance to the greed of corrupt men. But in the rugged, majestic peaks of the Sierra Blancas, surrounded by an unyielding people who called her White Star, she had gained something far greater: a true home, a family, and a kingdom of her own.