Fresh wagon tracks.
Several of them.
Ethan crouched beside one.
The wheels were wide.
Heavy.
Made for hauling.
He followed the tracks with his eyes.
They led deeper into the valley.
Then he noticed something else.
One of the children was holding a bloody cloth.
A woman had her arm wrapped around another child's shoulders.
Fear moved through the camp like a shadow.
Ethan stood.
"Who hurt them?"
The old man finally spoke.
His voice was quiet.
"The men who are coming."
Ethan felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.
"What men?"
The old chief looked toward the eastern ridge.
Then he pointed at Ethan.
"You."
Ethan frowned.
"Me?"
"You came from Cedar Ridge."
It wasn't a question.
Ethan slowly nodded.
"Yes."
The old man's eyes hardened.
"The men who want this water came from there too."
For several seconds, Ethan said nothing.
Then Ranger suddenly jerked the reins.
The horse stared toward the ridge.
Ethan turned.
Far away, beyond the rocks, he heard something.
A faint metallic sound.
Then another.
Horses.
More than one.
Ethan looked back at the camp.
The old man was already reaching for a rifle.
The children were being pulled behind the wagons.
And Ethan finally understood that the missing horses had not brought him to Dry River by accident.
They had brought him there before the shooting started.
The People Beside the Spring
The first gunshot came before Ethan could decide whether to leave.
It cracked across the valley.
A bullet struck the rock beside him.
Ranger reared.
Ethan grabbed the reins and pulled the horse sideways.
"Down!"
Another shot.
Then another.
The Apache camp erupted into movement.
Men grabbed rifles.
Women pulled children behind rocks.
The old chief dropped behind a wagon and fired toward the eastern ridge.
Ethan dragged his bay mare behind a boulder.
"Who are they?"
The little girl who had watched him earlier crouched beside him.
Her eyes were wide.
"Men from the ranch."
"What ranch?"
She pointed east.
"Cole's."
Ethan stared at her.
"My ranch?"
She nodded.
Ethan felt something cold settle in his stomach.
That made no sense.
Nobody from Cedar Ridge Ranch should have been there.
His ranch hands were at home.
His brother was dead.
His father had been dead for four years.
And Ethan had left only an hour after sunrise.
Then a voice shouted from the ridge.
"Ethan Cole!"
Ethan stiffened.
He knew that voice.
Deputy Marshal Silas Vane.
Ethan had met Vane twice.
Neither meeting had ended pleasantly.
Silas Vane was a broad man with a gray mustache and a reputation for collecting money from people who could not afford to pay him.
He had once told Ethan that law was simply another word for whoever had the larger gun.
Now Vane's voice echoed across the valley.
"Ethan! Move away from those savages!"
Ethan rose slightly.
"Vane!"
"Come back to the ranch!"
"Why are you shooting at them?"
"They stole your horses!"
Ethan looked at the three animals standing calmly near the spring.
"They didn't steal them."
Vane laughed.
"They drove them here."
"Because there's water!"
"They have no right to that water."
The old chief looked at Ethan.
There was no anger in his expression.
Only exhaustion.
Ethan turned back toward Vane.
"Who told you to come here?"
Silence.
Then Vane answered.
"Your neighbor."
Ethan's eyes narrowed.
"Which one?"
"Grant Holloway."
That name explained everything.
Grant Holloway owned the largest ranch in the county.
He also owned half the men who carried badges.
For months, Holloway had been trying to buy Cedar Ridge Ranch.
Ethan had refused.
The ranch wasn't profitable.
Everyone knew that.
The cattle were dying.
The grass was failing.
The bank wanted payment.
Yet Ethan had refused every offer.
Not because the ranch was worth a fortune.
Because it had belonged to his father.
And his father had spent forty years building it.
Holloway had laughed when Ethan refused.
"Sentiment doesn't feed cattle," he had said.
Ethan had answered, "Neither does greed."
Now Holloway had found another way.
The spring.
If Holloway controlled Dry River, he could control the only reliable water source for miles.
Ethan looked toward the old chief.
"What's your name?"
The old man lowered his rifle.
"Tomas."
"Ethan Cole."
"I know."
Ethan almost smiled.