Sometimes it was only a single rider.
Sometimes Thomas found footprints near the water trough.
He never demanded payment.
He never asked for information.
He never asked them to guide him through the mountains.
And he never treated their presence as an opportunity.
If someone needed water, he gave them water.
If a horse was injured, he offered medicine.
If an elderly traveler needed shade, he pointed toward the porch.
That was all.
Thomas didn't consider himself generous.
He considered himself decent.
There was a difference.
One autumn evening, Thomas was repairing a section of fence when he noticed a young Apache woman standing near the edge of his property.
She was holding a small child.
Thomas straightened.
"Need water?"
She nodded.
He opened the gate.
She approached cautiously.
The child was sick.
Thomas could see it immediately.
The little boy's face was pale, and his breathing was shallow.
Thomas brought them inside.
He had no doctor.
But he had medicine.
His mother had taught him enough to recognize fever and dehydration.
For two days, the woman stayed in a small room near the kitchen.
Thomas slept outside so she could have privacy.
When the boy recovered, she thanked him.
Thomas waved away the gesture.
"Just get him somewhere safe."
She looked at him strangely.
"Why?"
Thomas frowned.
"Why what?"
"Why help?"
Thomas looked at the boy.
Then at his mother.
Then toward the window where the desert stretched endlessly beneath the fading light.
"Because he needed help."
The woman stared at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
Years later, Thomas would remember those words.
He simply never imagined how far they would travel.
Men with Dust on Their Boots
The trouble began in spring.
Thomas noticed the signs before anyone else did.
Three cattle disappeared.
Then two more.
A fence was cut near the western boundary.
Someone had ridden across his property during the night.
Thomas examined the tracks at sunrise.
Four horses.
Possibly five.
The riders had tried to disguise their trail, but they had made one mistake.
They had crossed a patch of wet earth beside a dry creek bed.
Thomas crouched and studied the impressions.
One horse had a distinctive split shoe.
He remembered seeing that mark before.
In town.
On a horse belonging to a man named Silas Mercer.
Mercer was wanted in three counties.
Stagecoach robberies.
Bank theft.
Cattle theft.
Assault.
The law had been hunting him for years.
Thomas had never met him personally.
He had no desire to.
But now Mercer appeared to have discovered Thomas's ranch.
Three nights later, Thomas was sitting on his porch when he heard distant gunfire.
He immediately stood.
Boone began growling.
Thomas walked toward the barn.
A figure emerged from the darkness.
Then another.
Five riders.
Thomas reached for the rifle leaning against the wall.
"Stay where you are," a voice called.
Thomas recognized the voice.
Silas Mercer.
He rode forward beneath the moonlight.
He was a broad man with a dark beard and a scar across his left cheek.