THE FARMER WHO NEVER ASKED FOR ANYTHING

 The Man at the Water Trough

Arizona Territory, 1884.

The desert had a way of teaching a man what mattered.

Thomas Hale had learned that lesson during his first summer on the land.

Water mattered.

Shade mattered.

A good horse mattered.

A sharp rifle mattered.

And sometimes, when the sun had burned the color out of the earth and a man stood alone beneath a sky too enormous to belong to him, kindness mattered most of all.

Thomas had been living on his ranch for nearly eleven years.

It was not much to look at.

There was a weathered wooden house with a narrow porch, a barn that leaned slightly toward the east, a small corral, a chicken coop, and several acres of stubborn land where Thomas raised cattle and planted whatever crops the desert would tolerate.

A mesquite tree stood beside the well.

Thomas called it his shade tree, although it provided barely enough shade for one man.

He had no wife.

No children.

No hired hands.

Only an old bay horse named Copper and a black-and-white cattle dog named Boone.

Most men in the territory thought Thomas was foolish.

They told him he had chosen the wrong place to settle.

The nearest town was more than twenty miles away.

The nearest reliable river was farther still.

There were Apache bands moving through the surrounding mountains, and outlaws occasionally crossed the territory.

The soil was dry.

The summers were merciless.

The winters could be colder than newcomers expected.

Yet Thomas stayed.

He had come to Arizona at twenty-six with one rifle, two shirts, a worn Bible that had belonged to his mother, and thirty-seven dollars sewn into the lining of his coat.

Eleven years later, he still owned little.

But everything he owned was paid for.

That mattered to Thomas.

He had no debts.

He had no enemies he knew of.

And he had never asked anyone for anything.

Not because he was proud.

Because he had learned early that there were people who had much less than he did.

That morning, Thomas was repairing a broken section of fence when Boone suddenly lifted his head.

The dog stared toward the eastern trail.

Thomas straightened.

"What is it?"

Boone gave a low growl.

Thomas listened.

At first he heard only wind.

Then came the faint sound of hooves.

One horse.

Moving slowly.

Thomas reached for the rifle leaning against the fence post.

A rider appeared through the heat shimmer.

It was a woman.

She sat awkwardly in the saddle.

Her dress was gray beneath a layer of dust, and a faded blue shawl covered her shoulders despite the heat. Her horse was a thin chestnut gelding whose ribs showed beneath its coat.

The woman stopped beside the water trough.

She looked at Thomas.

Thomas looked at her.

Neither spoke.

Then the horse lowered its head toward the empty trough.

Thomas understood.

He put down his rifle.

"Easy," he said.

The woman swallowed.

"Water."

It was barely a whisper.

Thomas walked toward the trough.

The woman watched him suspiciously.

"You can water the horse."

She hesitated.

"And you?"

"I'm not thirsty."

That was a lie.

Thomas had been working since sunrise.

His mouth was dry enough to taste dust.

But the woman needed the water more.

She dismounted.

The moment her boots touched the ground, her knees nearly gave way.

Thomas caught her elbow.

She flinched violently.

He released her at once.

"Sorry."

She stared at him.

Thomas stepped back.

"You can use the trough."

She led the horse forward.

The animal drank desperately.

The woman lowered herself beside it and cupped water into her hands.

She drank once.

Then again.

Then she began to cry.

Quietly.

Without making a sound.

Thomas pretended not to notice.

He turned toward the barn.

Boone remained beside the woman.

After a moment, she asked, "Where am I?"

Thomas looked back.

"Hale Ranch."

"How far from Red Mesa?"

"About nineteen miles."

The woman's face changed.

She closed her eyes.

"Too far."

Thomas studied her.

"What happened?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing."

Thomas almost smiled.

He had heard that word before.

Nothing.

It was usually what people said when everything had happened.

He looked at her horse.

"Your animal won't make nineteen miles."

The woman looked down.

"I know."

Thomas walked to the barn.

"Then you don't need to ride nineteen miles."