He had seen that shape before.
Not the key itself.
The shape.
His eyes turned instinctively toward the cabin.
Toward the little brass clock sitting above his shelf.
The clock his father had owned.
The clock Corvin had carried across nearly four hundred miles of wilderness.
The clock he wound every evening.
The clock beside which, at precisely 7:42 P.M., he had written the previous night’s entry in his ranch ledger.
Apache woman at the well. Hurt. Gave water. Left north.
The woman’s voice came unexpectedly.
In clear English.
“Bring the clock.”
Corvin stared at her.
Yesterday, she had not spoken one word.
“You speak English.”
“I speak enough.”
The elder continued holding out the key.
“Why do you want my clock?”
For the first time, emotion touched the woman’s expression.
Not anger.
Not hostility.
Something almost like sadness.
“Because,” she said, “it never belonged to your father.”
The previous afternoon seemed suddenly much farther away.
Heat had swallowed the valley.
Corvin remembered hauling the bucket from the well, feeling the rope burn his palm.
He remembered spotting what looked like a dead animal beside the fence.
Then seeing fingers move.
He had approached cautiously.
Anyone who lived alone in that country learned caution early or did not live alone for long.
She had been covered in dust.
Blood had dried near her ribs.
Her lips were cracked almost white.
Corvin had known enough about dehydration to understand how close she was to death.
He could have remained inside his fence.
Could have lifted his rifle.
Could have waited for her to leave.
Instead he had filled the wooden ladle.
Her eyes opened as he approached.
They were dark.
Sharp.
Suspicious.
Corvin had stopped several feet away.
“Water.”
She had stared at the ladle.
Then at him.
“Take it or don’t.”
Slowly she reached for it.
She drank.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Carefully.
Even half dead, she refused to gulp.
Corvin refilled it.
She drank again.
After several minutes she pushed herself upright.
That was when Corvin realized how tall she was.
Standing, she rose several inches above him.
She touched the bandage material hanging from his belt.
Corvin understood.
“You want that?”
A slight nod.
He gave her cloth.
She wrapped her ribs herself.
“Someone shoot you?”
No answer.
“Knife?”
Nothing.
Corvin sighed.
“You’re a conversational delight.”
Something almost amused flickered in her eyes.
Then she walked away.
That should have been the end.
But before disappearing north, she had stopped once.
She had turned.
Not toward Corvin.
Toward the cabin window.
Toward the shelf beyond it.
Toward the brass clock.
He had assumed she was looking back at him.
Now Corvin realized she hadn’t been.
She had been looking at the clock.
“Wait here.”
Corvin turned toward the cabin.
Immediately, perhaps fifty rifles shifted.
The sound was tiny.
Metal against leather.
Yet hearing that many weapons move simultaneously froze him faster than a shouted threat.
