THE LAST WATER AT BLACK HOLLOW

The Rider Who Came Before the Storm

The first thing Samuel Reed noticed was that the well had stopped making noise.

For thirty years, the old windmill at Black Hollow had creaked through every season.

In summer, it groaned beneath the heat.

In winter, its metal blades complained against the frozen wind.

During storms, the entire structure seemed to shake as if some invisible giant were trying to tear it from the ground.

But that morning, there was silence.

Samuel stood beside the cattle trough with one hand resting on the wooden fence.

He listened.

Nothing.

Not even the faint metallic squeak of the pump.

He looked toward the windmill.

The blades were turning.

Slowly.

But no water came.

Samuel removed his hat and scratched the gray hair above his forehead.

"That's not good."

His ranch hand, Eli Parker, stood nearby.

"Maybe the pump's broken."

"Maybe."

Samuel walked toward the well.

He was fifty-seven years old, broad-shouldered, weathered, and quieter than most men preferred.

He had spent his life in places where a man's word mattered more than his clothes.

His boots were cracked.

His brown coat had been repaired so many times that the original stitching had nearly disappeared.

His hat was older than some of the ranch hands working for him.

But Samuel understood horses.

He understood cattle.

And most importantly, he understood water.

He placed his ear against the wooden casing.

Nothing.

Eli frowned.

"How bad?"

Samuel looked at the cattle.

More than two hundred head stood around the empty trough.

"Bad enough."

By noon, the cattle were restless.

By three, they were beginning to weaken.

By sunset, Samuel knew the problem wasn't the windmill.

The underground water table had fallen.

He rode south to inspect the creek.

It was dry.

He rode east.

Dry.

North.

Dry.

Finally, he turned west toward Black Hollow.

Nobody went there anymore.

The canyon had been abandoned for nearly twenty years.

Samuel's father had once warned him never to enter it after dark.

Not because of ghosts.

Because of men.

Samuel had never understood what that meant.

Until now.

He entered the canyon just before sunset.

His horse stopped.

Samuel looked ahead.

There was water.

A narrow pool sat between the rocks.

Fresh.

Cold.

And flowing.

Samuel dismounted.

He knelt.

He touched the water.

Then he noticed something beside it.

A fresh bootprint.

Not his.

Someone had been here recently.

Samuel stood.

His hand moved toward his revolver.

A rifle fired.

The bullet struck the rock beside his head.

Samuel dropped behind cover.

Another shot.

Then silence.

He waited.

Nothing.

Finally, he looked across the canyon.

A man stood on the ridge.

Black hat.

Long coat.

Rifle.

The stranger called down.

"You shouldn't have come here."

Samuel slowly stood.

"Neither should you."

The stranger smiled.

"You're Samuel Reed."

"Who are you?"

The man didn't answer.

Instead, he pointed toward the water.

"That belongs to the Black Hollow Company now."

Samuel looked at the pool.

"The Black Hollow Company doesn't exist."

"It does now."

"Who owns it?"

The stranger smiled.