THE MAN WHO RODE INTO THE RED MOUNTAINS
The Man Who Asked Questions
The desert wind dragged dust and secrets across the land that afternoon as Cody rode toward the town.
His horse, a black Mustang named Sombra, snorted wearily beneath him after three days of travel. The animal's coat had once shone like polished coal, but now it was dulled by dust and sweat. Cody reached down and rubbed the horse's neck.
"Almost there, boy."
Sombra flicked one ear backward as if he understood.
Cody was twenty-eight years old, though the desert had carved years into his face that did not belong there. His eyes were gray like steel, and a thin scar ran along his left cheek from the corner of his jaw toward his ear.
He rarely spoke about the scar.
He rarely spoke about anything.
For nearly six years, Cody had lived alone in a small cabin far from the nearest settlement. He owned a rifle, a revolver, a few horses, and little else. He had no wife, no children, no brothers or sisters.
His father had been dead for seven years.
His mother had died before Cody was old enough to understand what losing her meant.
Since then, the world had become a series of places to pass through rather than places to belong.
His only constant companion was Sombra.
The black Mustang had followed him through winter storms, summer heat, mountain trails, and nights when coyotes cried beyond the firelight.
Cody trusted the horse more than he trusted most men.
That afternoon, however, something was waiting for him in the town of Red Creek.
He did not know it yet.
When he entered the town, he immediately noticed something was wrong.
People had gathered in the central square.
Men stood in small groups, arguing loudly. Women watched from porches. Children had been pulled indoors. Horses stamped nervously near the hitching posts.
Cody slowed Sombra.
"What happened?"
Nobody answered him.
He dismounted and led the Mustang closer.
A large man wearing a brown hat was shouting at the crowd.
"Two hundred horses!"
Another man shook his head.
"That's what I heard."
"The bandits stole every last one of them."
Cody stopped.
Two hundred horses.
He listened.
"And what does that matter to us?" someone asked.
The large man shrugged.
"They're Apache horses."
A few men laughed.
"Let them solve their own problems."
Cody felt something cold settle in his stomach.
He hated that laugh.
He had heard it before.
Years earlier, men had laughed that way while his father lay dying beside a wagon road.
Nobody had stopped to help.
Cody had never forgotten.
He stepped forward.
"What exactly happened?"
The large man turned.
"Who are you, stranger?"
"Someone asking a question."
The man's expression hardened.
Cody looked directly at him.
"What happened to those horses?"
An elderly man stepped from the crowd.
He was thin, with white hair beneath a worn hat. His eyes were tired but sharp.
"Three nights ago," the old man said, "a group of bandits attacked an Apache camp north of here."
The crowd became quieter.
"They took two hundred horses."
"Why so many?" Cody asked.
"Because the horses belonged to the entire tribe."
The old man swallowed.
"Without them, the Apache won't survive the winter."
Cody frowned.
"They can't hunt?"
"Not properly."
"Travel?"
"No."
"Carry supplies?"
The old man shook his head.
"Then someone should go after the thieves."
Silence.
Then laughter.
The fat man shook his head.
"Help the Apaches? Stranger, you're clearly not from around here."