In the mornings, Caleb worked.
Yuma rested.
In the evenings, they sat outside the shed.
Sometimes they talked.
Sometimes they didn't.
On the second night, Yuma finally spoke.
“The men who shot me work for Gideon Rusk.”
Caleb knew the name.
Everyone did.
Gideon Rusk owned the Blackwater Cattle Company.
Five thousand cattle.
Three hundred employees.
Two private gun crews.
And enough money to buy judges.
Rusk had been trying to purchase the valley for years.
Caleb had refused him twice.
Now Caleb understood the boot print beside the spring.
Rusk knew.
“How did he find my water?”
Yuma looked at him.
“He followed your cattle.”
Caleb cursed.
Yuma continued.
“He wants this spring.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no other permanent water for twenty miles.”
Caleb stared toward the darkness.
“How many men?”
“Rusk?”
“Yes.”
“Enough.”
“That isn't a number.”
“Two hundred.”
Caleb went silent.
Yuma looked at him.
“Perhaps more.”
Caleb walked outside.
He stood beside the spring.
Water bubbled quietly from beneath the rock.
Cold.
Pure.
Precious.
For twelve years he had believed this spring was his greatest protection.
Now he understood it might become his death sentence.
Yuma came outside.
“You should leave.”
Caleb turned.
“Leave my ranch?”
“Yes.”
“Where would I go?”
“North.”
“To what?”
“Mountains.”
“And live there?”
“Yes.”
Caleb laughed.
“You Apache always make everything sound simple.”
Yuma looked at him.
“It is simple.”
“What?”
“Men who want your land will never stop wanting it.”
Caleb looked at him for a long time.
“You think they'll come tonight?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“When?”
Yuma looked toward the southern horizon.
“When they are certain you are alone.”
Caleb's expression changed.
“They think I'm alone.”
Yuma nodded.
“That is why they will come.”
THE NIGHT OF THE RED MOON
They came three nights later.
There was no warning.
No shouting.
No gunfire.
Only the sound of a horse moving somewhere beyond the barn.
Caleb was awake.
He had been sleeping lightly.
He opened his eyes.
Yuma was standing near the door.
“You heard them.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Thirty.”
Caleb reached for his rifle.
Yuma shook his head.
“Thirty outside.”
Caleb froze.
“What does that mean?”
“More are coming.”
Caleb moved to the window.
He saw shadows.
Men around the barn.
Men near the corral.
Men beside the main road.
He counted at least twenty.
Then a voice called through the darkness.
“Caleb Mercer!”
Caleb recognized it.
Gideon Rusk.
“Come outside!”
Caleb looked at Yuma.
Yuma whispered:
“Do not.”
Rusk shouted again.
“You know why I'm here!”
Caleb opened the door.
He did not step outside.
“You're trespassing.”
Rusk laughed.
“You own nothing.”
“I own this ranch.”
“You own a patch of dead earth.”
“You rode all this way for dead earth?”
Silence.
Then Rusk said:
“The spring.”
Caleb's stomach tightened.
Rusk continued.
“Give me the spring and I let you walk away.”
Caleb laughed.
“You already brought thirty men.”
“Thirty-two.”
Caleb's eyes narrowed.
Rusk was counting.
“Thirty-two,” Rusk repeated. “And there are another sixty riders two miles south.”
Yuma looked at Caleb.
Caleb understood.
This was not a negotiation.
It was an execution.
Rusk wanted no witnesses.
Caleb raised his Winchester.
“You're not taking my land.”
Rusk sighed.
“Then you'll die on it.”
The first rifle fired.
The bullet struck the doorframe.
Caleb returned fire.
A man fell beside the barn.
Yuma fired next.
His shot struck a second rider.
The attack erupted.
Bullets tore through the cabin walls.
Caleb moved from window to window.
Yuma fired calmly.
They had only a few minutes before the attackers overwhelmed them.
Then something unexpected happened.