Finally, she stepped forward and accepted the ladle.
She drank exactly three mouthfuls.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Even though her body must have been screaming for more.
Then she handed it back.
Corvin immediately filled it again.
“Take another.”
Her gaze shifted toward him.
For the first time, she spoke.
“No.”
Her English was quiet but clear.
“You need more than that.”
“No.”
“There’s plenty.”
The woman looked at the well.
Then she looked at Corvin.
“Water is never plenty.”
Something in those four words made him stop arguing.
He lowered the ladle.
“You hurt?”
She touched the blood on her shoulder as though she had forgotten about it.
“Not enough.”
“That’s an unusual answer.”
Her expression almost changed.
Almost.
Corvin pointed toward the cabin.
“I’ve got clean cloth.”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
“A horse?”
This time she hesitated.
Then she shook her head.
Corvin frowned.
“You planning on walking?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
The moment the question left his mouth, he regretted it.
The woman’s face closed.
Corvin lifted his hands.
“None of my affair.”
He stepped backward.
She studied him again.
Not casually.
Not with curiosity.
She looked at Corvin as though she were trying to memorize his face.
Her eyes paused on the scar running across the base of his left thumb.
For the first time, something unmistakably emotional moved across her expression.
Shock.
Corvin noticed.
“What?”
The woman looked quickly away.
“Nothing.”
“You stared at my hand.”
“No.”
“You did.”
She turned toward the hills.
Corvin almost called after her.
Instead, he watched the stranger walk north through the burning afternoon until distance and heat swallowed her completely.
Only much later would he understand that she had not been staring at his scar.
She had been recognizing it.
That evening Corvin followed the same routine he had followed almost every evening for eleven years.
He fed the horses.
Checked the trough.
Cooked beans.
Repaired a hinge.
Then he opened the thick brown ledger he kept beneath his shelf.
Living alone changed a man.
Without neighbors to remember things for him, Corvin had become methodical about writing down unusual events.
The brass clock above the fireplace showed precisely 7:42.
Corvin dipped his pen.
Apache woman near well. Injured. Gave her water. Walked north.
He considered adding something about the scar.
Instead he closed the book.
Outside, darkness settled over the valley.
At 11:17, the horses began acting strangely.
Corvin woke to the chestnut hammering a hoof against its stall.
He reached automatically for the Winchester beside his bed.
Then he heard another horse snort.
Another stamped.
Something was out there.
Corvin crossed the cabin barefoot and looked through the window.
Nothing.
Stars covered the sky.
The yard was empty.
The hills appeared black and lifeless.
Still, Corvin slept badly.
Several times he woke convinced he had heard hoofbeats.
Whenever he listened again, there was only wind.
At dawn, he walked outside.
And found the ridges covered with riders.
For almost twenty minutes, nobody moved.
Then one rider separated from the northern ridge.
An older man descended slowly toward Corvin’s ranch.
His hair was streaked with gray. Deep lines crossed his face. He carried a rifle in a saddle scabbard but kept his hands visible.
