He pressed forward, climbing steadily into the upper benches of the sandstone labyrinth. His throat burned with dry dust, and the canteen swinging from his saddle horn had grown ominously light. When he shook it, the remaining water produced only a dull, hollow splash—barely two swallows of warm, metallic fluid. Dutch’s neck was caked with white lather, and the horse’s ears drooped forward in weariness.
Ethan stopped beneath the overhang of a sheer cliff to give the animal a moment of rest. He pulled off his sweat-stained Stetson and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his faded denim work shirt. The fabric was stiff with salt from days of perspiration. His canvas trousers were torn at the left knee where he had slipped against a sharp boulder an hour earlier, and the thin leather soles of his working boots felt completely worn through against the blistering stone.
"Just a cowhand chasing a runaway horse," Ethan said softly to himself, leaning his forehead against the warm leather of Dutch’s saddle. "A fine way to make a fortune, Walker. A real fine way."
Yet beneath the self-mockery was a cold knot of anxiety. If he didn't find water soon, both he and Dutch would be in grave danger. The sun was already slanting westward, casting long, sharp shadows across the canyons, turning the red rock faces from dusty orange into a deep, ominous vermilion. In the desert, twilight was brief, and darkness in these unfamiliar canyons brought freezing temperatures and sheer drop-offs that could break a horse's leg in a single misstep.
He pulled Dutch’s reins and began leading the gelding through an extraordinarily narrow fissure in the sandstone ridge. The gap was so tight that Ethan’s shoulders brushed against the coarse stone on either side, scraping the skin of his forearms. The air within this narrow chimney was surprisingly cool, insulated from the scorching winds of the flats.
And then, as Ethan took another step, a sudden shift in the breeze brought something entirely unexpected to his senses.
He froze. He tilted his head back, his nostrils flaring as he tested the draft coming through the crevice.
It was not the dry, alkaline dust of the desert. It was the distinct, unmistakable fragrance of woodsmoke—sweet, fragrant, and heavy with the resinous oils of burning cedar and pinon pine. And beneath that woodsmoke lay another scent: the crisp, moist aroma of cold running water and damp cottonwood leaves.
Ethan felt a sudden surge of adrenaline chase away his fatigue. Water meant survival. Smoke meant human beings.
He knew well enough that in 1873, woodsmoke in an uncharted mountain pocket was rarely a welcoming sight. It could belong to a camp of Mexican horse thieves, a hideout for rustlers operating off the Tucson-Prescott road, or an Apache hunting party with every justification to shoot a lone white intruder on sight.
He secured Dutch’s reins to the tough, twisted root of an ancient juniper growing out of a rock cleft, patting the horse’s sweaty neck with a quiet hand. "Hush now, boy. You stay right here."
Ethan reached down to his hip, checking his sidearm. It was a single-action Colt .45, blue steel worn silver along the cylinder and barrel, resting in an open-topped leather holster. He checked the hammer, ensuring it sat securely over an empty chamber as caution demanded, and eased it back into the leather. He had no intention of drawing it unless death was staring him in the face; a lone pistol against an unknown number of men in a blind canyon was nothing more than an invitation to a funeral.
Crouching low, Ethan crept forward through the remainder of the narrow fissure. The passage ended at a natural stone ledge, a high terrace of red rock shielded by a dense thicket of scrub oak and wild buckthorn.
Carefully parting the leafy branches with his calloused fingers, Ethan peered out over the drop.
What he saw took the breath entirely out of his chest.
Below him lay a vast, hidden amphitheater of emerald green, fed by a crystal-clear mountain stream that twisted across a carpet of crimson wildflowers. Massive cottonwood trees, glowing with fresh spring leaves, cast cool, gentle shadows across dozens of neatly arranged brush shelters.
And right in the middle of this hidden paradise, gathered in a massive, orderly circle of hundreds of people, was an entire Apache encampment.