Nothing came.
Her mother drew the child against her chest.
The girl did not cry.
She had no tears left.
Cole turned toward Dust.
Two full canteens hung from the saddle.
A small barrel remained tied behind the seat.
Enough water for Cole to survive several days if he rationed it carefully.
Not enough for forty people.
Not remotely enough.
But maybe enough to keep children alive until nightfall.
He stared at the canteens.
Then at the dying boy.
“Damn it.”
He ran back down the ridge.
Minutes later, Cole approached the group carrying every drop of water he owned.
Several warriors reached weakly for knives.
Cole stopped immediately.
A tall man with silver streaking his black hair stepped forward.
He looked somewhere near sixty, though hardship had carved enough lines into his face for eighty years. Exhaustion bent his shoulders but had not erased the authority in his posture.
Cole understood without being told.
A leader.
Perhaps a chief.
Cole slowly lifted his empty hands.
“I ain’t here to fight.”
Nobody answered.
He crouched.
Placed the first canteen on the ground.
Then the second.
Finally the barrel.
“Water.”
Still no movement.
Cole stepped backward.
“Drink.”
A little girl stumbled forward.
A warrior caught her arm.
The older leader raised one hand.
The warrior released her.
She reached for the canteen.
The child drank first.
That single act broke the silence.
Women moved quickly but carefully. Children were given small swallows. Elders next. The strongest men waited until last.
Cole watched as every mouthful disappeared.
No one fought.
No one grabbed more than another.
Even in desperation there was an order among them that shamed him.
One woman wet a strip of cloth and pressed it to the collapsed boy’s lips.
His eyelids fluttered.
Cole felt his shoulders loosen.
By sunset, several of those who had been crawling could stand.
Not well.
But they stood.
Cole had no idea where their next water would come from.
Neither did he know where his would.
Still, he tightened Dust’s saddle.
He could reach an old stage stop by noon tomorrow if the well there had not dried.
Maybe.
Cole placed one boot in the stirrup.
The silver-haired leader approached.
For a long moment, the older man simply studied him.
Then he called out something sharp.
Cole turned.
Movement appeared among the rocks.
Twenty-two Apache women stepped forward.
Cole slowly lowered his foot from the stirrup.
They ranged from perhaps twenty years old to seventy. Some carried children. Some had scars across their hands or faces. Several wore mourning bands. One elderly woman walked with a cane polished smooth from years of use.
They formed a line beneath the blood-red sky.
Every man in the group became quiet.
The silver-haired leader pointed toward Cole.
Then toward the women.
He spoke several solemn sentences.
A younger warrior standing nearby translated in broken English.
“He says… they are for you.”
Cole stared at him.
“What?”
The warrior swallowed.
“He says twenty-two women… belong with you now.”
Cole’s hand dropped from the saddle.
“No.”
The translator frowned.
Cole shook his head harder.
“No. Absolutely not.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed.
Cole pointed at the women.
“I didn’t give water to buy people.”
The translator hesitated.
“Tell him.”
He translated.
A strange murmur passed through the group.
