THE SUMMER THAT WOULD NOT END
The desert had always been cruel.
But that summer, even the oldest people could not remember it being so cruel for so long.
For months, the sun had risen every morning like a punishment.
It climbed above the distant mountains without mercy and burned across the open plains until the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath its heat. The wind carried no relief. It rolled across the desert like a living creature, dragging curtains of dust behind it and filling every hollow, every footprint, and every mouth that dared to breathe too deeply.
The land had lost its color.
Grass had turned brittle and gray.
The mesquite trees stood like skeletons, their branches thin and twisted against the pale sky.
Creeks that once ran after winter storms had become cracked scars in the earth.
Even the animals had changed their habits. Coyotes traveled farther at night. Birds disappeared from the open plains. Wild horses gathered near dry riverbeds, searching for water that no longer existed.
For the Apache band moving slowly through that land, every mile had become a question.
How much farther?
How much longer?
And would anyone survive long enough to find water?
Chief Hosa rode at the front.
He was not an old man, though the drought had made him look older.
His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his face carried the lines of someone who had spent a lifetime making decisions other people did not want to make. He rode upright despite exhaustion, his shoulders squared beneath the weight of responsibility.
Behind him came the families.
Women walked beside tired horses.
Children rode whenever there was room, though many of the horses were too weak to carry extra weight.
Warriors moved along the edges of the group, watching the distant ridges for danger.
Nobody spoke much.
There was no energy for unnecessary words.
Their water bags had run dry the previous night.
Hosa had ordered the remaining drops divided among the children.
No one argued.
That was the kind of leader he was.
But when darkness fell, and the children finally slept against their mothers, Hosa had sat alone beside a dying fire and stared into the black distance.
He had known fear.
A chief who claimed never to be afraid was either a liar or a fool.
But this fear was different.
A man could fight another man.
He could defend against raiders.
He could plan for an attack.
He could move his people away from danger.
But drought was an enemy that could not be reasoned with.
You could not negotiate with the sun.
You could not threaten the wind.
You could not defeat an empty river with courage.
By morning, the band continued west.
It was their only choice.
A scout had heard rumors weeks earlier of hidden springs among the canyon country. Nobody knew whether the rumors were true. But hope did not have to be certain to be followed.
Sometimes hope was simply the direction you walked when every other direction meant death.
Chief Hosa rode for hours without speaking.
Then he heard coughing behind him.
A child.
He turned.
A little boy named Taza sat behind his mother on a horse that was barely standing. The boy's lips were cracked. His eyes were half closed.
Hosa stopped his horse.
The entire group stopped with him.
The silence became heavy.
The boy's mother looked at the chief.
She did not ask the question aloud.
She did not have to.
Hosa knew what she was asking.
How much farther?
He looked toward the horizon.
Heat shimmered over the land.
The world seemed to bend and disappear.
He wanted to give her an answer.
Instead, he said the only honest thing.
“We keep moving.”
The woman lowered her eyes.
Hosa turned his horse forward.
But inside, something was breaking.
He had led his people through raids.
Through winters.
Through sickness.
He had buried warriors and elders.
He had stood before enemies with weapons in his hands.
Yet nothing had prepared him for the helplessness of watching his people weaken beneath an empty sky.
By noon, even the strongest horses staggered.
By afternoon, several people had begun walking in silence because they no longer had the strength to talk.
And far away, beyond a line of low ridges, another man was following a different trail.