He turned the mare toward the approaching group.
He did not reach for his rifle.
Instead, he raised both hands where everyone could see them.
Three Apache warriors moved forward immediately.
Their weapons were ready.
Eli stopped.
The wind pushed dust across the ground between them.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, one of the older men stepped forward.
His hair was silver, his face weathered by decades beneath the sun.
His name was Nantan.
He studied Eli carefully.
"Why are you here?"
Eli nodded toward the people behind him.
"You need water."
The old man's eyes narrowed.
"We know."
"I have some."
That changed everything.
The warriors exchanged glances.
One raised his weapon slightly.
Nantan stopped him with a gesture.
"Where?"
Eli pointed toward the red cliffs.
"Three hours if we ride hard."
Nantan looked at the exhausted children.
"We cannot ride hard."
Eli shook his head.
"Then we walk slowly."
The old man studied him for several seconds.
"You are alone."
"I've been alone before."
"Why help us?"
Eli looked across the valley.
There were many reasons he could have given.
Because children were dying.
Because his mother had once taught him that water was never something a man should hoard when another person was thirsty.
Because the desert had already taken too many people from him.
But he simply said:
"Because I know what it means to be thirsty."
Nantan lowered his head.
Then he turned to his people.
"Tell them we follow the stranger."
And that was how the journey began.
The first hour was difficult.
The second was worse.
By the third, Eli realized that the group would never reach the canyon before dark unless they changed their pace.
He dismounted.
"We rest."
One warrior immediately objected.
"No."
Eli looked at him.
"You want your people alive?"
The warrior stared back.
"Then listen."
Eli pointed toward the mountains.
"The water won't disappear."
Nantan understood.
They stopped beneath a cluster of twisted mesquite trees.
There was barely enough shade for half the group.
The children were given what little water remained in their containers.
Eli watched silently.
He noticed that several adults refused to drink.
They handed their portions to the children.
He knew that gesture.
He had seen it before.
Parents giving their last bite of food to a child.
Husbands pretending not to be hungry.
Mothers claiming they were not thirsty.
He looked away.
His throat tightened.
Nantan noticed.
"You have family?"
Eli shook his head.
"Not anymore."
"Dead?"
"My father. My mother. My brother."
Nantan waited.
Eli rarely spoke about his brother.
"He died when he was seventeen."
"War?"
"No."
Eli looked at the children.
"Thirst."
Nantan's expression changed.
Eli stared at the ground.
"That was a long time ago."
"But you remember."
"Every day."
The old man said nothing more.
They rested for another twenty minutes.