Ethan folded the documents carefully, wrapped them in a piece of oiled oilcloth to protect them from dirt and sweat, and slipped them securely into his leather saddlebag.
Next, he walked to his gun rack.
If twenty hired men were coming to Dry River at sunrise, paper documents alone would not stop them. Men like the mercenaries employed by Frontier Water and Cattle only understood force.
Ethan retrieved his heavy double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun, a crate of brass-cased buckshot shells, and a secondary Model 1873 Winchester rifle. He packed a leather pouch with spare ammunition for his Colt .44 revolver, checked the action on every weapon, and loaded them onto his pack horse.
By midnight, he was back in the saddle, riding hard toward the west.
While Ethan rode through the dark, five miles north of Dry River, another meeting was taking place in a sprawling, timber-framed ranch house known as the Black Rock Headquarters.
Inside a lavishly furnished room lit by crystal oil lamps and smelling of fine cigars and expensive whiskey sat Vance Hargrove, the regional director of the Frontier Water and Cattle Company.
Hargrove was a broad, heavy-set man in his late fifties, dressed in a tailored wool suit that looked out of place in the dusty Arizona territory. He had slicked-back gray hair, cold blue eyes, and a sharp, calculating mind that viewed the western frontier not as a home, but as a giant chess board to be conquered for maximum profit.
Standing before his heavy oak desk was Marcus Vance—no relation to Hargrove, but his chief of security and the leader of the company's private enforcement squad. Marcus was a tall, scarred veteran of the Texas range wars, a man who wore two low-slung pearl-handled revolvers and possessed a total disregard for human life.
"Is everything prepared for tomorrow morning?" Hargrove asked, swirling the amber whiskey in his glass.
"We've got eighteen men assembled at the lower camp," Marcus replied, his voice raspy from years of trail dust and bad whiskey. "We'll ride into the draw right at first light. By eight o'clock, those Apaches will either be driven across the river or buried under the cottonwoods."
Hargrove leaned back in his leather chair, a cold, satisfied smile touching his thin lips. "Make sure it's thorough, Marcus. The railroad survey team arrives in Tombstone next Thursday. I want our legal ownership of that spring fully established and uncontested before their engineers set foot in the valley. If there are any... obstacles... eliminate them."
"What about the local ranchers?" Marcus asked, leaning against the desk. "A few of them have been asking questions about the water rights down at the county recorder's office."
Hargrove dismissively waved his hand. "Small men with small minds. They don't have the money or the legal power to fight us. If any of them interfere tomorrow, treat them the same as the natives. This territory belongs to those who have the courage to take it."
Marcus grinned, exposing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. "Understood, boss. We'll give them a sunrise they won't forget."
Unaware of Hargrove's explicit orders, Ethan Cole arrived back at the crest above Dry River two hours before dawn.
The camp beneath the cottonwoods was quiet, but it was not asleep. Tomas had posted sentries every fifty yards along the high ridge, their dark figures blending perfectly into the shadow of the red rocks.
Ethan picketed his horses in the concealed draw behind the ridge and walked down into the camp on foot, carrying his armload of weapons and ammunition.
Tomas met him near the edge of the stream. The old warrior took one look at the heavy crate of shotgun shells and the extra rifles Ethan carried, then looked up into the young rancher's tired, dust-caked face.
"You came back," Tomas said softly.
"I told you I would," Ethan replied, setting the ammunition crate down on a flat rock. He reached into his coat and pulled out the oiled oilcloth package, unfolding it to reveal the yellowed map and the red wax seal. "This is the original survey. It proves the company has no legal claim to this water. It belongs to everyone."
Tomas looked down at the paper, tracing his finger over the faded red seal. "It is a good paper, Ethan. But men who carry guns in the morning do not stop to read papers."
"I know," Ethan said, picking up his double-barrel shotgun and cracking the breech to slide two heavy brass shells into the barrels. "That's why I brought the rest of these."
Dawn arrived over the Dragoon Mountains not with a gentle warmth, but with a sharp, violent burst of golden light that cut through the freezing desert mist.
By five o'clock in the morning, Ethan, Tomas, and six Apache marksmen were positioned along the high rim of the narrow canyon that formed the only entrance into Dry River Draw.
The defensive strategy was simple but deadly. The canyon entrance narrowed down to a forty-foot passage bordered by steep walls of loose shale and red limestone. If the company riders tried to force their way through the bottleneck on horseback, they would be caught in a devastating crossfire from the rocks above.
Ethan lay prone behind a flat slab of sandstone, his Winchester rifle resting steadily on the rock, his eyes fixed on the open plain extending to the west. Beside him lay his double-barrel shotgun and three extra boxes of cartridges.
To his right, hidden so effectively beneath a woven blanket of dry scrub brush that he was virtually invisible, lay Tomas. The old man held an old but meticulously maintained Springfield rifle, his breathing slow and rhythmic.
Down in the valley behind them, the women, children, and elders had been moved deep into a natural limestone cave located behind the spring, safe from stray bullets.
The air was completely still. The dry leaves of the cottonwood trees hung motionless in the crisp morning air.
Then, at six-fifteen, Ethan felt it before he saw it.
A faint, rhythmic vibration passed through the cold stone beneath his chest.
"They are coming," Tomas whispered softly without moving his head.
A mile to the west, a thick column of yellow dust rose into the clear morning sky. Within minutes, the sound of galloping horses echoed off the canyon walls—a heavy, thunderous roar of iron shoes striking hard-packed clay.
Ethan brought the stock of his Winchester to his shoulder, lining up his sights on the mouth of the canyon.
The dust cloud expanded, and then the riders materialized out of the haze.
There were nineteen of them. They rode hard, organized in a wide, aggressive V-formation. At their head rode Marcus Vance, his silver-plated revolvers catching the early morning sunlight, a dark wool coat flapping behind him like the wings of a scavenger bird.
The mercenaries did not look like men expecting a legal discussion. They carried lever-action carbines across their saddle horns, their faces covered with bandanas to keep out the choking dust, their eyes cold and hungry for violence.
They swept toward the narrow mouth of the canyon without slowing down, intending to ride straight into the camp, burn the shelters, and scatter the occupants through sheer terror and overwhelming force.
"Hold your fire," Ethan murmured to the men along the ridge. "Let them enter the choke point. Don't shoot until I fire."