Chapter 1 - When Dust Stopped
Dust had crossed worse country than this.
That was the first thing Cole Maddox thought when the bay gelding stopped so abruptly that Cole nearly went over the saddle horn.
“Easy, boy.”
Dust did not move.
The Arizona sun hung white above the flats, flattening every shadow and turning distant red cliffs into wavering shapes behind the heat.
Cole loosened the reins.
Dust’s ears were forward.
His muscles trembled beneath the saddle.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
Cole had owned the horse for eight years.
Dust feared rattlesnakes, sudden lightning and absolutely nothing else Cole had discovered.
Yet now the gelding planted all four hooves in the sand.
Cole looked around.
The silence bothered him next.
No insects.
No birds.
Not even the little desert sounds a man stopped noticing until they disappeared.
Cole slipped one hand toward the rifle strapped behind his saddle.
Then he heard it.
A groan.
Weak.
Human.
Somewhere beyond the ridge.
Cole dismounted.
“Stay.”
Dust did not need telling.
Cole climbed the slope with his rifle low but ready.
At the crest, he stopped.
More than forty people were scattered across the basin below.
Apache families.
Not raiders.
Not warriors waiting in ambush.
People dying.
A man stumbled two steps and collapsed.
An older woman knelt beside someone who could no longer stand.
Two mothers carried children despite barely remaining upright themselves.
An elder crawled through the dust because his legs had stopped obeying him.
Cole’s rifle lowered.
Then a boy fell face-first into the sand.
Nobody had strength to run toward him.
Cole looked back toward Dust.
Two canteens hung from the saddle.
A small barrel was tied behind it.
His entire water reserve.
Enough to keep Cole alive several days if his route east took longer than expected.
He looked down again.
A little girl stood beside her mother holding an empty water skin upside down.
Not one drop fell.
Her lips were cracked.
She was too exhausted even to cry.
“Damn it.”
Cole ran.
He took both canteens.
Untied the barrel.
Carried everything downhill.
Several men saw him approach.
Their reactions were immediate despite exhaustion.
One reached for a knife.
Another pushed himself between Cole and the nearest children.
Cole stopped several yards away.
He put down the barrel.
Then one canteen.
Then the other.
He raised both hands.
“I ain’t here to fight.”
Nobody moved.
A tall man in his fifties stepped forward.
Silver streaked his dark hair.
His body showed the same dehydration as the others, but his posture remained commanding.
Cole guessed immediately.
Chief.
Cole pointed toward the water.
“Drink.”
Still nobody moved.
The little girl did.
She stumbled forward.
A young warrior caught her arm.
She barely reacted.
The chief raised one hand.
The warrior released her.
The girl reached the first canteen.
She drank too quickly.
Cole instinctively moved.
“Slow.”
Several hands went toward weapons.
He stopped.
The girl's mother knelt beside her and controlled the canteen, giving her small mouthfuls.
Good.
Someone understood.
Then the chief spoke.
People began sharing the water.
Not rushing it.
Passing it.
Children first.
Then elders.
Women wetting cracked lips.
Men pouring small amounts into the mouths of people unable to sit upright.
Cole watched every swallow disappear.
Nobody offered him any.
He had not expected them to.
By late afternoon the barrel was empty.
So were both canteens.
Cole’s own tongue felt thick.
But three men who had been lying motionless could now sit.
The little girl slept against her mother.
Cole walked back to Dust.
“Looks like we made ourselves a problem.”
Dust exhaled.
Cole tightened the saddle.
The chief approached.
Cole touched his hat.
“Take care of your people.”
He turned Dust west.
Behind him the chief shouted.
Cole stopped.
Movement appeared between the rocks.
Women.
One.
Then five.
Ten.
Twenty-two adult women stepped forward in a long line beneath a blood-red sunset.
They stood with composed expressions, not fear.
Cole slowly turned.
“What the hell is this?”
A younger warrior who spoke English moved beside the chief.
“You gave everything,” he said. “You asked for nothing.”
Cole glanced toward the women.
“The chief offers you a great honor.”
“What honor?”
The translator hesitated.
“You may choose one to become your wife.”
Cole stared.
For several seconds he wondered whether dehydration had finally reached his brain.
Then he removed his hat.
“No.”
A murmur moved through the group.
The translator frowned.
“You refuse?”
Cole looked at the women.
Then toward the little girl drinking the final wetness from her mother’s water skin.
“I didn’t help anybody to own them.”
Silence.
One of the twenty-two women stepped forward.
She was perhaps thirty.
Dusty buckskin clothing.
Dark hair tied behind her shoulders.
No ceremonial smile.
She walked directly toward Cole.
The chief made no attempt to stop her.
Cole’s hand moved away from his gun.
The woman stopped six feet away.
Then spoke clear English.
“Good.”
Cole blinked.
She looked back toward the other women.
“Because none of us were the reward.”
Cole turned toward the translator.
The young man looked suddenly uncomfortable.
The woman continued.
“We needed to know what kind of man you were.”
“What kind?”
“The kind who gives water.”
Her eyes hardened.
“Or the kind who thinks giving water buys people.”
Cole looked toward the chief.
The older man watched without expression.
The woman pointed behind Cole.
Toward the cliffs.
“We were sent to warn you.”
Cole followed her hand.
At first he saw nothing.
Then riders appeared along the ridge.
Ten.
Twenty.
More behind them.
Silhouetted against the dying sun.
Cole’s exhaustion vanished beneath instinct.
“Who are they?”
The woman answered:
“Men who emptied our wells.”
Cole stared.
She added:
“And they are not following us.”
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Her eyes met his.
“They are looking for you.”
