THE LAST WELL OF RED MESA
The Rider at Red Mesa
Jacob Reed had learned long ago that the desert could lie.
From a distance, a valley might look green enough to support a hundred cattle. A riverbed might shine like water beneath the afternoon sun. A line of cottonwoods might promise shade, only to reveal themselves as dead skeletons standing over cracked earth.
And sometimes a man who smiled at you across a card table could be planning to bury you before sunrise.
Jacob trusted none of those things.
Especially men who smiled too easily.
He had been riding east for three days when he reached Red Mesa.
His original intention had been to continue another fifty miles toward Silver Junction, where he had been offered a job breaking horses for a wealthy rancher. Jacob owned little besides the bay mare beneath him, a Winchester rifle, a bedroll, and thirty-seven dollars hidden inside his left boot.
It was enough.
He had lived with less.
At thirty-six years old, Jacob had stopped believing he needed much.
A roof was useful.
Food was necessary.
A horse was essential.
Everything else had a way of becoming a chain.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
He rode beneath the shadow of the mesa shortly before sunset.
The town appeared gradually.
A church steeple.
Several wooden buildings.
A blacksmith shop.
A saloon.
A dry goods store.
Beyond them stood ranch houses scattered along the flats.
Jacob might have ridden straight through if he had not seen the boy.
The child was lying beside the road.
Jacob pulled hard on his reins.
"Easy."
His mare stopped.
The boy looked about twelve.
His clothes were covered in dust. His face was red from the heat. A wooden water bucket lay overturned beside him.
Jacob dismounted.
"Son?"
The boy's eyes opened.
"Water."
Jacob reached for his canteen.
He poured a little into the boy's mouth.
Slowly.
Too much water too quickly could be dangerous.
The boy coughed.
Jacob waited.
"What's your name?"
"Ben."
"Ben what?"
"Harper."
"Where's your family?"
The boy pointed weakly toward a ranch house half a mile south.
Jacob lifted him onto the mare.
"Hold on."
They reached the ranch at dusk.
A woman came running from the porch.
"Ben!"
She was perhaps thirty years old, though worry made her look older. Her brown hair had been tied back carelessly, and she wore a work dress covered in dust.
She pulled Ben from the saddle.
"What happened?"
"He collapsed near the road."
She touched the boy's forehead.
"Thank you."
Jacob nodded.
"You need more water."
The woman's expression changed.
"We know."
Jacob glanced toward the well.
The bucket rope hung loose.
"Dry?"
"Almost."
"How long?"
"Two weeks."
Jacob studied the surrounding land.
The cattle in the nearest pasture were thin.
There was no green grass.
No creek.
No visible pond.
"Where does the town get water?"
"Black Canyon."
Jacob looked north.
A dark split in the hills marked the canyon.
"That's six miles."
"Seven."
"And you carry it?"
"When we're allowed."
Jacob frowned.
"Allowed?"
The woman looked toward town.
Before she could answer, the boy whispered:
"Mr. Vale owns it."
Jacob had heard that name.
Horace Vale.
Cattle king.
Land speculator.
Railroad investor.
The kind of man whose reputation traveled farther than he did.
Jacob had crossed paths with Vale's riders once, near Fort Stanton.
He remembered them.
Expensive saddles.
Clean rifles.
Bad eyes.
The woman carried Ben toward the house.
"My name is Ellen Harper."
"Jacob Reed."
She stopped.
"Reed?"
Something in her voice changed.
Jacob noticed.
"You know the name?"
"No."
Too quick.
She went inside.
Jacob stood on the porch.
He should leave.
He had no reason to involve himself.
Red Mesa was not his town.
These were not his people.
He had spent fifteen years avoiding precisely this kind of problem.
Then he heard horses.
Four riders approached.
They wore dark coats despite the heat.
The man in front was thin and blond.
He looked at Jacob.
"Who are you?"
"Passing through."
"Then pass."
Jacob smiled faintly.
"I was planning to."
The rider looked toward the house.
"Mrs. Harper."
Ellen stepped outside.
She kept Ben behind her.
"What do you want, Mr. Crane?"
"Payment."
"You'll get it."
"You said that last week."
"I need time."
"You've had time."
Crane removed a folded document from his coat.
"Mr. Vale has been patient."
Ellen said nothing.
Jacob glanced at her.
"What payment?"
Crane looked at him.
"Not your concern."
Jacob rested a hand on his saddle horn.
"Didn't say it was."
Crane turned back to Ellen.
"Your water debt is twenty-four dollars."
"I don't have twenty-four dollars."
"Then you lose the ranch."
Ben shouted:
"You can't!"
Crane smiled.
"Actually, boy, I can."
Jacob's jaw tightened.
He looked toward the dry well.
"You charge them for water?"
Crane faced him again.
"Mr. Vale controls the Black Canyon aquifer."
"You mean the spring."
"It's legally his."
Jacob laughed quietly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Crane moved his horse closer.
"Say what you're thinking."
Jacob looked up at him.
"I was thinking I've met thieves who had enough shame to hide their faces."
Silence fell.
Crane's hand moved toward his revolver.
Jacob didn't move.
For several seconds, the only sound was the wind.
Then one of Crane's men said:
"Leave it, Silas."
Crane stared at Jacob.
"You staying in Red Mesa?"
"No."
"Good."
He turned his horse.
"Mrs. Harper, tomorrow at sundown."
The riders left.
Ellen looked at Jacob.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"Probably."
"Silas Crane kills people."
"So do rattlesnakes."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She studied him.
"You really are leaving?"
Jacob looked toward the road.
He wanted to say yes.
Instead, he looked toward Ben.
The boy was trying to lift the empty water bucket.
Jacob sighed.
"Maybe in the morning."
The Red Mesa saloon was crowded that night.
Jacob sat alone near the back wall.
He listened.
That was one of the habits that had kept him alive.
Men revealed more when they believed nobody important was listening.
He heard about the drought.
He heard about Vale.
He heard about Black Canyon.
The story was simple.
Three years earlier, Horace Vale had purchased several parcels of land around the canyon.
Then the drought came.
The shallow wells around Red Mesa began to fail.