THE WATER AT DRY RIVER

Smoke Above the Valley

By the time Ethan Cole saw the smoke rising above Dry River, he had already ridden ten miles farther than he had planned.

He had left Cedar Ridge Ranch before sunrise with one simple job: find three missing horses.

That was all.

The animals had disappeared sometime during the night, slipping through a section of fence that Ethan had repaired twice that summer. He suspected they had followed the scent of water westward, toward the broken country where the hills became red stone and the grass grew thin beneath the August sun.

He expected to find them by noon.

Instead, he found something else.

The morning had begun cool, but the August heat was already gathering by the time Ethan reached the ridge overlooking the western valley. His horse, Ranger, lowered its head and breathed heavily.

Ethan shaded his eyes.

There.

Beyond the ridge.

A thin column of smoke rose into the pale blue sky.

It wasn't chimney smoke.

There were no ranches in that direction.

No cabins.

No permanent settlements.

Dry River had been empty for years.

At least, that was what everyone in Cedar Ridge said.

Ethan stared at the smoke.

It rose steadily, dark at the base and gray above, disappearing into the morning wind.

His first thought was fire.

His second was men.

Neither thought made him comfortable.

He pulled Ranger's reins.

"Easy, boy."

Ranger's ears pointed forward.

Ethan studied the land.

Dry River wasn't really a river anymore. Decades of drought had reduced it to a wide scar through the valley, with a narrow bed of pale stones winding between cliffs. There was supposedly an underground spring somewhere beneath the valley floor, but no white settler had ever found it.

The old maps called the place Dry River.

The local ranchers called it cursed.

Ethan had never believed in curses.

He believed in drought, bad fences, hungry wolves, dishonest men, and the simple mathematics of survival.

But he had also learned that when a man saw smoke in a place where no smoke should exist, ignoring it was usually a mistake.

He turned Ranger west.

The horse protested.

"Just a little farther."

The trail became rougher.

Red cliffs rose on both sides, forcing Ethan through a narrow passage. The grass disappeared almost completely. Sand gathered in the cracks between rocks, and the heat seemed to rise directly from the ground.

Then Ranger stopped.

Ethan leaned forward.

A hoofprint.

Fresh.

He dismounted.

The print belonged to one of his missing horses.

"Got you."

He followed the trail.

It descended toward the valley.

Ten minutes later, he found the first horse.

A bay mare stood beneath a cottonwood tree, drinking from a shallow pool of water.

Ethan smiled.

"Well, that's one."

The mare lifted her head.

She didn't run.

That was strange.

Ethan approached slowly and took hold of her reins.

Then he saw the other two.

They were standing farther down the valley.

All three were alive.

But they weren't alone.

Ethan froze.

Across the dry riverbed stood a group of people.

Twenty or more.

Women.

Children.

Men.

They were camped beside a small spring hidden beneath the shadow of the cliffs.

And every person in the camp had turned to look at him.

Ethan's hand moved instinctively toward the revolver at his hip.

Not because he wanted trouble.

Because the people across the valley were Apache.

He had heard stories.

Every rancher in the territory had.

Some stories were true.

Most were not.

The group remained completely silent.

An older man stood near the spring.

His hair was silver, his face deeply lined by years of wind and sun.

He carried no visible weapon.

He simply watched Ethan.

Then a little girl stepped forward.

She could not have been more than eight.

She looked at Ethan's horse.

Then at the three animals behind him.

Then back at Ethan.

The old man raised one hand.

The girl stopped.

Ethan slowly removed his hand from his revolver.

"I'm only here for my horses," he said.

The old man didn't answer.

Ethan glanced toward the spring.

Water.

Real water.

Clear water flowing between stones.

He suddenly understood why the horses had disappeared.

They had smelled it.

So had the people.

And so had someone else.

Because beside the spring were wagon tracks.