The first thing Caleb Rourke noticed was the silence.
It was not the ordinary silence of the Arizona frontier, where the wind usually whispered through the mesquite and somewhere in the distance a hawk cried over the canyon walls.
This silence was different.
It felt deliberate.
As if the desert itself were holding its breath.
Caleb reined in his horse at the crest of a red-rock ridge and stared across the valley below.
Three days earlier, he had left his small ranch north of Mercy Creek in search of six cattle that had broken through a fence during a summer storm.
He had expected to find tracks.
Instead, he had found smoke.
Not the gray thread of a cooking fire.
Black smoke.
Several columns of it.
Rising beyond the ridge.
Caleb's hand moved instinctively toward the revolver at his hip.
His horse, Ranger, shifted uneasily beneath him.
“Easy, boy.”
Caleb scanned the valley.
Nothing moved.
No cattle.
No riders.
No birds.
Then a distant rifle shot cracked through the heat.
Ranger jerked his head upward.
Caleb immediately leaned low over the saddle.
Another shot followed.
Then another.
Someone was fighting down there.
Caleb could have turned around.
He should have.
The sensible thing would have been to return to his ranch, gather his men, and send word to the territorial sheriff.
But Caleb had never been particularly good at doing the sensible thing when somebody needed help.
He nudged Ranger forward.
The trail descended sharply toward the valley.
As he came around a bend, he saw the source of the smoke.
A small settlement stood beside a narrow spring.
Several wagons had been overturned.
Horses were tied beneath cottonwood trees.
Women were carrying children toward a rocky shelter.
Armed riders were positioned along the ridge.
And at the center of the settlement stood an older Apache man with silver threaded through his black hair.
He carried no visible weapon.
He did not need one.
Every person around him seemed to wait for his word.
Caleb stopped at the edge of the clearing.
Several rifles immediately turned toward him.
The old man raised one hand.
The rifles lowered.
“You are Caleb Rourke,” the man said.
Caleb frowned.
“That depends on who's asking.”
“My name is Tomas.”
Caleb knew the name.
Every rancher in the territory did.
Tomas had been a respected leader among several Apache families for decades. Some settlers called him dangerous. Others called him honorable.
Caleb had always believed a man's reputation depended largely on who was telling the story.
Tomas studied him.
“You have your father's eyes.”
Caleb stiffened.
“You knew my father?”
“I knew Samuel Rourke.”
“My father has been dead twelve years.”
“I know.”
Caleb dismounted.
“What happened here?”
Tomas looked toward the smoking wagons.
“Men came for our water.”
“How many?”
“Thirty.”
Caleb glanced around.
“And how many do you have?”
Tomas smiled without humor.
“Not enough.”
Caleb looked at the spring.
The water was clear.
Cold.
Precious.
In that part of the territory, water meant survival.
Whoever controlled the spring controlled everything around it.
“Who were the men?”
“A company calling itself Red Mesa Land and Water.”
Caleb had heard of them.
They had been buying land for nearly two years.
Ranches.
Mining claims.