When I fire overhead, everyone stops. Even Storm.

The man who was charging at Dalton sees the dog, and he raises something in his hand, and Jacob drops on Storm, covering her.

“Stop!” I say.

I don’t know if it will do any good. I believe they are capable of understanding the word; I do not believe they are capable of caring about it. I’m not even sure the guns matter, if the shot didn’t just startle them.

Then I hear a voice, and the words are so garbled, it doesn’t sound like English.

“Get on the ground,” one of the men says again, slower, clearer, as the man Dalton knocked down rises.

Two others step up beside Dalton. Two men armed with clubs. One raises his and barks what I am certain is not a word, but the meaning is clear.

“Do as he says, Eric,” Jacob says. “Please just do as he says.” He glances over his shoulder and says, “You, too,” and that must be for Kenny, sneaking up.

Dalton holsters his gun, and I wait for someone to tell him to hand it over instead, but no one does.

Dalton kneels and puts his hands on his head. His expression is blank, but I see the rage in his eyes. This is the second time today we have been ambushed, and that feels like failure, as if we are characters in a bumbling-cop movie. But the truth is that this is the Yukon wilderness, and we are always one step away from ambush, by human or beast. The forest swathes her threats in bush and shadow, and we can walk all day and see no more than hares . . . or we can be forced to lower our weapons twice.

In all this, the woman before me has not moved. When I fired, she flinched, but now she stands exactly where she was, watching me, studying. No one else pays me any mind. I’m standing with my gun out, but they don’t seem to care. They have assessed our party and dismissed me. One man watches Jacob—still atop Storm—but makes no move to go closer.

Four men surround Dalton, and something tells them that this is all that matters.

Which is not wrong. Not wrong at all.

The man who spoke before prods Dalton with his club. “Jacket.”

Dalton glowers, but even before Jacob can speak up, Dalton takes off his pack and tosses it aside. The jacket follows.

“Gun.”

He lays that down.

“Shirt.”

“What the hell—?”

“Eric?” Jacob says, and there’s a quaver in his voice.

Jacob has spent his life avoiding the hostiles. There was an encounter years ago, when he’d been a young teen, after his parents died. I don’t know details, but he’s said enough for me to suspect it was not unlike the ordeal Nicole faced . . . in every way.

“We’ll be fine,” I say. “We’ll be fine.”

Dalton grunts and strips off his T-shirt. “There. If you want the rest, you’re gonna need to—”

“We will take the rest.”

The leader grabs Dalton’s gun and swings it up.

I shout “Eric!” and lunge.

Dalton drops to the ground. The gun fires. And I fire.

I shoot the leader. I do not think about what I’m doing. I saw that gun rise on Dalton, and I knew what was happening. They made Dalton remove his jacket and shirt so they didn’t ruin the garments when they put a bullet through him.

The leader falls. Dalton’s gun drops from his hand, and Dalton scrambles for it. It takes only a split second, and then we’re back-to-back, our guns raised.

The leader lies on the ground, blood pumping, his hands over the hole through his chest. His mouth works, his eyes wide. And not one of his own people even looks his way.

He is defeated. He is useless. He is forgotten.

“Jacob! Kenny!” Dalton shouts. “Go!”

There is a pause, and I know Jacob and Kenny are both assessing. Waiting for one of the remaining hostiles to turn on them, to raise a weapon, let loose a dart. But they do not. All they care about is us.

“Jacob,” Dalton says again.

Then there’s a rustle in the undergrowth, and while neither of us dares look that way, I know Jacob and Kenny are retreating. That’s the smart move. This is bad enough already, with Dalton and me back-to-back, guns drawn, three armed men surrounding us, a woman with a knife just a few feet away.

“Back the fuck up!” Dalton says to the men.

The one with the club steps toward us.

“That is not backing the fuck up,” Dalton says. “I know you understand English, so do not pull this bullshit caveman routine on me. I know where you are from. The same place I am, and you will not pretend you don’t fucking understand me.”

One of the other two men raises a knife.

“Drop that!” Dalton barks. “If you take a step toward us with that—”

The man draws back as if to throw the knife. I shoot his hand. He lets out a howl, blood spraying, knife dropping. Then he charges.

I kick. I don’t aim for his groin, but that’s where my foot connects. He falls back yowling, and the two other men run at us, weapons raised.

Dalton fires. I kick again and then swing my gun, hitting my attacker in the face. I hear Dalton snarl for the men to stop, just fucking stop before we put fucking bullets through their fucking heads. We do not want to do that. To them, though, that does not make us merciful. It makes us weak.

It makes us vulnerable.

I kick. I pistol-whip. Dalton shoots, aiming to wound, not kill. My foot makes contact. So do my gun and Dalton’s bullet, and the three men are bleeding. Bleeding and enraged, club flying, knife slashing. I hear an oomph as the club strikes Dalton in the chest. I wheel to fend off his attacker, and a knife slashes my jacket.

I remember a story Brent told once, about a wolverine. He’d watched it defend its kill from a grizzly. Defend it to the death, the wolverine knowing it had no chance of winning against the bigger predator but unable to surrender. That’s what this is. Only we cannot walk away. Cannot just say, “You win—take our stuff and go.” That is not an option; it never was an option.

The hostiles can’t win this fight against our guns. It doesn’t matter. Our reluctance to use those guns is like blood in the water. The smell of weakness drives them into a frenzy, even if they must realize we won’t let them beat and stab us to death while we hold loaded guns. They will force our hand.

The club blow winded Dalton. He lowers his gun, and his attacker is pulling back to strike him again. Dalton raises his gun, but he hesitates, and I know he will not pull that trigger. Something in his brain says he doesn’t need to just yet.

He will not use lethal force until he is moments from death himself.

I can fix this.

Don’t worry. I can fix this.

Dalton diverts his aim to the man’s arm. His finger moves to the trigger, and I fire. I must fire. I will not gamble on his life. I have already killed one man today, and if I have to kill three more to walk away from this then that is what I must do. They leave us no choice.

I fire.

My aim isn’t perfect. This is not a slow dance. Only a few heartbeats pass between Dalton being clubbed and me realizing I must shoot before he is hit again. I pull the trigger, and my bullet hits Dalton’s attacker in the shoulder. It is enough. He goes down, and I spin on the other two men.

Dalton shoots one in the leg. The other is coming at me, and I raise my gun and Dalton has his up, yelling, “Stop, you stupid son of a bitch! Just stop!”

A shot fires. The man flies sideways, and Kenny stands there, gun gripped in both hands, his eyes wide. The hostile slumps to the ground, shot through the chest. Kenny stands frozen, breathing hard.

“Eric?”

I hear the voice, and I think it must be Jacob. It isn’t Kenny, and it comes from off to the side. It’s pitched high, but I am still sure it is Jacob—he’s frightened. Then there’s a movement on my right as Jacob and Storm cautiously approach from the left.

I turn toward the voice.

The woman stands on the path.

I have forgotten the woman. She’s gripping her knife, and there are four of her people on the ground, two dead and two injured, moaning and bleeding, and she doesn’t seem to see them. She’s staring at Dalton.

“Eric?”