By the time Ethan Cole saw the smoke rising above Dry River, the sun had already climbed high enough to turn the western mesas the color of burning copper.
He had not intended to go that far.
Cedar Ridge Ranch was supposed to be his entire world that morning. Three horses had disappeared during the night, and Ethan had promised himself he would find them before noon, bring them home, repair the fence, and spend the evening in peace.
Instead, he had followed their tracks through ten miles of increasingly hostile country.
The trail had taken him away from familiar grassland and into a maze of red cliffs, thorn bushes, and dry washes. His gelding, Boone, had become increasingly cautious. The horse seemed to understand that something about the land had changed.
Then Ethan found water.
Not much.
Just a narrow ribbon of silver flowing beneath a group of cottonwood trees.
He stared.
The maps said the spring at Dry River had vanished years ago.
Apparently, the maps were wrong.
Three horses were drinking beneath the trees.
His horses.
Ethan laughed quietly.
"Well, Boone," he said, "looks like they found paradise before we did."
He was about to ride down when he noticed the people.
Apache families occupied the valley.
There were perhaps thirty of them. Women carried clay containers. Children moved between the trees. Horses stood tied in the shade.
But Ethan also saw rifles.
Several armed riders were positioned on the surrounding ridges.
One of them spotted him.
A rifle rose.
Ethan immediately lifted both hands.
"I'm not looking for trouble."
A rider approached.
He was an older man with silver threaded through his black hair. His face was deeply lined, but his posture remained straight. He rode without hesitation, stopping approximately twenty feet from Ethan.
"You are Ethan Cole."
Ethan narrowed his eyes.
"Who wants to know?"
"My name is Tomas."
The name meant something.
Ethan's father had mentioned it years ago.
Samuel Cole had rarely spoken about the people he had met during his younger years, but Tomas had been one of the few names Ethan remembered.
"You knew my father."
Tomas studied him.
"Your father knew me."
"What happened to you?"
Tomas looked toward the valley.
"Survival."
There was something in the old man's voice that made Ethan stop asking questions.
Instead, Tomas pointed toward the horses.
"Those are yours."
"I can see that."
"They came here yesterday."
Ethan dismounted.
Before he could walk toward them, Tomas raised his hand.
"Wait."
Ethan stopped.
"Why?"
"Because tomorrow morning, twenty armed men will come here."
Ethan looked toward the surrounding cliffs.
"Who?"
"The Frontier Water and Cattle Company."
Ethan's expression hardened.
He knew the company.
Almost everyone in the territory did.
It had begun as a cattle operation. Within two years it had acquired ranches, bought influence in county offices, and hired men who carried rifles more often than they carried branding irons.
"What do they want?"
Tomas looked at the spring.
"The water."
Ethan frowned.
"Who owns it?"
Tomas gave him a humorless smile.
"That is what men with money are trying to decide."
The spring was not simply valuable because it provided drinking water.
Dry River sat between three mountain passes.
A railroad survey had recently been completed in the region. If the railroad came through, the valley would become one of the most valuable pieces of land in the territory.
Whoever controlled the water would control the valley.
Ethan looked at the families.
"And you're going to fight them?"
"If we must."
"How many fighters?"
"Enough to die."
"That's not what I asked."
Tomas's expression softened.
"Not enough to win."
Ethan looked west.
The sensible thing would have been to collect his horses and leave.