Caleb reached toward his canteen.
The warrior's eyes followed it.
Caleb opened the cap.
He looked at the remaining water.
Half a canteen.
Enough for him to survive the ride home.
Perhaps.
Maybe.
But the Apache was dying.
Caleb remembered his wife.
He remembered her final night.
How she had whispered that she was thirsty.
How there had been no water left.
How he had held an empty cup.
Caleb looked at the warrior.
Then he extended the canteen.
“Drink.”
The Apache stared at him.
“You know who I am?”
“No.”
“You know my people?”
“I know enough.”
“You fought us.”
“Yes.”
“You killed Apache.”
“Yes.”
The warrior's eyes narrowed.
“And you give me water?”
Caleb shrugged.
“You're thirsty.”
The Apache slowly reached for the canteen.
He drank.
Only a little.
Then stopped.
Caleb watched him.
“More.”
The warrior shook his head.
“Save it.”
“For what?”
“For yourself.”
Caleb almost laughed.
“You're lying in the dirt bleeding to death, and you're worried about my water?”
The Apache looked directly at him.
“You need it more.”
Caleb sat beside him.
“My name is Caleb.”
The warrior was silent.
Finally he said:
“Yuma.”
Caleb nodded.
“Yuma.”
A distant gunshot cracked across the valley.
Both men turned.
Yuma's hand went toward his knife.
Caleb reached for his rifle.
Another shot.
Closer.
Yuma whispered:
“They are coming.”
“Who?”
“The men who shot me.”
Caleb looked toward the ridge.
Dust rose in the distance.
Four riders appeared.
Then six.
Then eight.
Caleb stood.
He looked at Yuma.
“You brought trouble to my ranch.”
Yuma nodded.
“Yes.”
Caleb sighed.
“I knew I should've stayed home.”
Yuma almost smiled.
Then Caleb pointed toward the cottonwood.
“Can you walk?”
“No.”
“Can you crawl?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough.”
Caleb lifted him.
The Apache was heavier than expected.
Yuma groaned.
Caleb dragged him toward June.
The riders were getting closer.
Caleb pushed Yuma onto the horse.
Then he mounted behind him.
“Hold on.”
Yuma looked back.
“Where?”
“My ranch.”
“You trust me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Caleb looked toward the approaching riders.
“Because I don't trust them either.”
And he rode.
THE HIDDEN SPRING
Caleb reached his ranch just before sunset.
He did not take Yuma through the front gate.
Instead, he rode around the northern ridge and followed a narrow trail between two walls of stone.
The trail ended at a hidden hollow.
There stood an old mining shed.
It looked abandoned.
It wasn't.
Behind the shed was Caleb's secret spring.
He dismounted.
Yuma nearly collapsed.
Caleb caught him.
“Easy.”
“I can stand.”
“You can barely breathe.”
“I can stand.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Stubborn bastard.”
Yuma looked at him.
“You are also.”
Caleb almost smiled.
Inside the shed was a narrow bed.
Caleb placed Yuma on it.
Then he examined the wound.
The bullet was still inside.
Caleb had removed bullets before.
But never from a man.
He heated a knife.
Yuma watched him.
“You have done this?”
“To cattle.”
“Not people?”
“No.”
Yuma nodded.
“Then I may die.”
Caleb looked at him.
“You were going to die anyway.”
Yuma smiled faintly.
“Good argument.”
Caleb poured whiskey over the wound.
Yuma's entire body tightened.
He made no sound.
Caleb dug carefully.
Minutes passed.
Then the bullet came free.
Yuma exhaled.
Caleb cleaned the wound and wrapped it tightly.
“You'll live.”
Yuma looked at the bullet in Caleb's hand.
“You are sure?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Caleb frowned.
“Why good?”
“Men who are certain are dangerous.”
That sentence stayed with Caleb.
For three days, Yuma remained hidden.
Caleb brought him water.
Food.
Medicine.
Yuma recovered slowly.
He told Caleb little about himself.
Caleb asked few questions.
They developed an unusual rhythm.