Chapter 1 - The Last Mouthful
By three in the afternoon, James Carter had stopped pretending the heat was merely uncomfortable.
It was dangerous.
The Arizona Territory stretched around him in white glare and trembling air. His bay gelding, Amos, had carried him for nearly two weeks across country hard enough to crack wagon wheels and humble experienced men. Now the horse’s head hung low, foam dried pale along the leather bridle, and each step came slower than the last.
James touched the canteen hanging from his saddle.
Almost empty.
He shook it.
A single wet splash answered.
“Same situation as me,” he muttered.
Amos flicked one exhausted ear.
James had been trying to reach his ranch before nightfall. The spread lay another fifteen miles east, beyond a line of black mesas. He had been away negotiating the sale of twenty cattle in Prescott, only to discover that the buyer had disappeared owing half the territory money.
The loss irritated him.
The thirst frightened him.
Then he saw movement beside the dry creek.
At first James thought the heat had invented it.
Two women.
The older woman stood with her body angled protectively in front of the younger. Both wore dust-covered clothes. Their faces were hollow with dehydration. The younger woman tried to rise from a rock and immediately collapsed to one knee.
James pulled Amos to a stop.
The older woman stiffened.
Fear traveled across her face.
James understood why.
A solitary armed white rancher approaching two Apache women in 1884 did not automatically mean help.
He slowly lifted both hands.
“I’m not looking for trouble.”
No response.
Perhaps they understood little English. Perhaps they understood perfectly and simply did not trust him.
James dismounted.
The younger woman’s right ankle was swollen almost twice its normal size. A shallow scrape ran along her shin, dried blood mixed with dust.
James looked toward the empty horizon.
No horses.
No wagon.
No men.
Only heat.
He removed his canteen.
The older sister’s gaze fixed on it.
James unscrewed the cap.
He knew exactly how much remained.
Enough to keep him going, perhaps.
Not enough for three people.
He raised the canteen, wet his cracked lips with the smallest possible swallow, then held it toward the women.
The older sister stared.
James extended his arm farther.
“Water.”
She approached carefully and took it.
For one instant James expected her to drink desperately.
Instead, she turned and pressed the canteen into her younger sister’s hands.
The younger woman drank once, stopped herself, then offered it back.
James shook his head.
“All of it.”
They did not understand the words.
They understood his gesture.
The younger woman drank again. The older sister took what remained.
The canteen came back empty.
James felt something primitive inside him protest.
Fifteen miles.
No water.
Blazing afternoon.
He pushed the thought away.
Next came his food sack.
A piece of bread.
Dried beef.
A handful of cooked beans wrapped in cloth.
His last meal.
James divided it.
The women tried to refuse.
“Eat.”
The older one watched him closely.
James pointed toward the younger woman.
Then toward the food.
“Eat.”
Understanding softened something in her expression.
They shared the bread.
James crouched near the injured ankle.
The younger woman flinched.
He backed away immediately.
Then James pointed to himself, touched his own ankle, and mimed wrapping it.
The older sister exchanged a few quiet words with the younger.
Permission came with a reluctant nod.
James removed his spare tan shirt from the saddlebag and tore a long clean strip from the hem.
The sound of ripping cloth seemed absurdly loud.
He wrapped the swollen joint firmly without cutting circulation.
The younger woman hissed through her teeth.
“Sorry.”
When he finished, she tested the support.
Standing remained impossible.
James looked at Amos.
Then toward the distant ranch.
Then back at the woman.
He sighed.
“Well, friend, looks like you’ve lost your passenger.”
He helped the injured woman onto Amos.
The older sister walked beside the horse.
James took the reins.
For hours they moved through heat that seemed determined to kill anything foolish enough to challenge it.
James’s tongue thickened.
His vision blurred at the edges.
Once he stumbled.
The older sister caught his arm.
He gave her a tired smile.
“Now we’re even.”
Near sunset she suddenly pointed.
Cottonwoods.
James saw green leaves rising beyond the dry wash.
That meant roots.
Roots meant water.
They hurried as much as exhausted bodies could.
Beneath the trees lay a spring James had never seen, cold water bubbling from stone into a shaded basin.
He dropped to his knees.
The sisters did the same.
Nobody spoke.
Water made conversation unnecessary.
At dawn, hoofbeats woke James.
He sat upright beneath the cottonwoods.
Riders covered the ridge.
His hand moved instinctively toward his revolver.
Then the older sister stood.
She smiled.
The tension vanished from her shoulders.
Family.
Dozens of Apache riders descended.
An elderly man approached with calm authority. A younger man beside him spoke English.
The elder studied James.
Then the torn cloth around the younger sister’s ankle.
His hand settled over his heart.
The interpreter said, “He says what you did is not forgotten.”
James stood.
“They were in trouble.”
The interpreter translated.
The elder answered quietly.
“He says many men see trouble and continue riding.”
James looked away, uncomfortable with gratitude.
By midmorning, he was back on Amos.
He believed the strange encounter had ended.
The following sunrise proved how wrong he was.
James stepped onto his ranch porch carrying coffee.
He stopped.
Dust rose across the eastern valley.
One rider appeared.
Then twenty.
Then a hundred.
Within minutes, mounted figures occupied every ridge surrounding the Carter ranch.
James counted until counting became pointless.
Six hundred.
Perhaps seven.
His coffee cup lowered slowly.
Inside the house, his Winchester hung above the fireplace.
James stared at it.
Then left it where it was.
“Seven hundred men,” he whispered. “One rifle won’t matter.”
He walked outside empty-handed.
The formation opened.
The elder rode forward.
Beside him came the two sisters.
The younger woman still wore James’s cloth around her ankle.
The interpreter dismounted carrying something wrapped in leather.
He placed it on James’s porch table.
An old map.
Then a yellowed government survey.
James leaned closer.
His ranch was marked.
So was the hidden spring.
And beneath a column of faded handwriting appeared one name.
CARTER.
James frowned.
“My grandfather never lived here.”
The elder pointed to a sentence near the bottom.
James read it twice.
IF A CARTER RETURNS, PROTECT THE WATER UNTIL HE LEARNS WHY HIS FAMILY WAS CHOSEN.
A movement on the northern ridge caught his eye.
Three white riders watched from a distance.
The center man wore an expensive black coat.
Silas Mercer.
Silas turned his horse abruptly and rode away.
James looked at the interpreter.
“What does Mercer know?”
The interpreter’s expression darkened.
“Enough to fear that you have seen this.”
James placed his palm on the old survey.
“What is beneath my ranch?”
The elder looked across the hundreds of waiting riders.
Then toward the dry valley.
The interpreter spoke quietly.
“Enough water to make one man rich.”
A pause.
“Or thousands survive.”
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Behind James, inside the house, something crashed.
Someone was already inside his ranch.
