DRY RIVER

 Smoke Above the Valley

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

He had left Cedar Ridge Ranch before sunrise looking for three missing horses.

Three hours later, he had found neither horses nor an easy trail home.

The August sun had climbed over the eastern ridges with a hard white brightness, turning every exposed stone into a blade of light. The country west of Cedar Ridge was unforgiving that time of year. The grass had gone brittle and yellow. The shallow creeks had become trenches of cracked mud. Even the wind seemed tired.

Ethan pulled his bay gelding to a stop on a ridge.

Smoke rose in the distance.

Not a cooking fire.

Too much of it.

A thin gray column drifted above a line of cottonwoods in a valley Ethan knew should have been nearly empty.

Dry River.

He narrowed his eyes.

For years, people in the territory had called the place Dry River because most of the year the creek bed was nothing more than pale stones and dust. But beneath the cottonwoods, an underground spring kept a narrow pool alive even during the worst summers.

His father had known about it.

Every rancher within twenty miles knew about it.

And lately, men from the Frontier Water and Cattle Company had been asking questions about it.

Ethan's jaw tightened.

He touched the brim of his hat and urged his horse forward.

The missing horses had followed water.

That was the only explanation.

An hour later he reached the edge of the valley.

Then he saw the camp.

Apache families had gathered beneath the cottonwoods.

There were perhaps thirty people in all. Women carried clay jars from the spring. Children moved between shelters made from blankets, branches, and canvas. Horses stood in the shade. Several men watched the surrounding ridges with rifles and bows.

Ethan stopped well outside the camp.

A rider separated himself from the others.

The man was older, broad-shouldered, and calm. His hair was streaked with gray. A rifle rested across his saddle.

He approached without hurry.

“You are the cowboy from Cedar Ridge,” he said.

Ethan kept one hand near his revolver.

“That depends who is asking.”

The older man almost smiled.

“Tomas.”

Ethan nodded.

“I know the name.”

“Tomas is enough.”

“And you know mine.”

“I know the ranch.”

Tomas glanced at Ethan's horse.

“You came alone.”

“I was looking for three horses.”

“You found trouble instead.”

“That happens.”

Tomas studied him.

Then he pointed toward the spring.

“Your horses are there.”

Ethan looked past him.

Indeed, three familiar shapes stood beneath the cottonwoods.

His chest loosened.

But only for a moment.

“Why are they here?”

“They came for water.”

Ethan looked back at the valley.

“And you?”

“We came for the same thing.”

There was no accusation in Tomas's voice.

That somehow made Ethan more uncomfortable.

He dismounted.

Tomas remained in the saddle.

“Three days ago,” Tomas said, “men came with papers.”

“What kind of papers?”

“They said this valley now belonged to a company.”

Ethan looked toward the spring.

“Frontier Water and Cattle?”

Tomas nodded.

“They blocked the creek.”

Ethan's expression hardened.

“My father told me those water rights were never sold.”

“Your father knew this land.”

“He did.”

“And you?”

Ethan looked at the valley.

“I am still learning.”

Tomas's eyes settled on him.

“That may save you.”

Before Ethan could answer, a rifle cracked somewhere on the western ridge.

Every person in the camp froze.

A second shot followed.

Then a third.

Children screamed.

Men grabbed rifles.

Ethan drew his revolver.

Tomas wheeled his horse.

“Stay here!”

But Ethan was already moving.

He had seen the direction of the smoke.

It wasn't from the camp.

It was coming from the creek.

And suddenly he understood.

Someone wasn't merely trying to claim Dry River.

The False Lease

The shots stopped as quickly as they had begun.

Ethan and Tomas rode toward the creek.