"No."

"How do you know?"

Caleb studied the prints.

"Because they're not looking for water."

Hosa waited.

"They're looking for people."

The chief looked toward the camp.

Caleb stood.

"We need to move."

"Tonight?"

"Before sunrise."

Hosa nodded.

Then Caleb noticed something else.

The tracks were heading toward the spring.

Whoever had made them already knew where the water was.

And that meant someone had told them.

The camp moved before dawn.

Women packed supplies.

Children were wrapped in blankets.

The horses were saddled without unnecessary noise.

Caleb rode ahead with three Apache scouts.

They followed a narrow canyon north, then doubled back through a dry wash.

The goal was simple.

Make the pursuing riders believe the band had gone east.

By sunrise, the camp was hidden several miles away.

Caleb returned to the spring alone.

He wanted to know who had discovered their location.

The answer came before noon.

A rider appeared on the ridge.

Then another.

Then four more.

Six men.

They wore dusty coats and carried rifles.

At their center rode a broad man with a black beard.

Caleb recognized him.

Elias Rourke.

A horse thief.

A smuggler.

And a man with a reputation for treating human beings as obstacles rather than lives.

Rourke dismounted.

He looked at the spring.

Then at Caleb.

"Where are they?"

Caleb leaned against his saddle.

"Who?"

Rourke smiled.

"You know exactly who."

Caleb shrugged.

"Lots of people pass through here."

"Not many Apache bands."

Silence.

Rourke walked closer.

"We heard they found water."

"Then you heard correctly."

"Where did they go?"

Caleb looked at him.

"Why?"

Rourke laughed.

"Because I want their horses."

Caleb's expression hardened.

"Then you're out of luck."

Rourke's smile disappeared.

"You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly."

Rourke's men spread out.

Caleb's hand moved near his pistol.

But he didn't draw.

Rourke pointed toward the canyon.

"You've been traveling with them."

"Maybe."

"You've become one of them."

Caleb stared at him.

"Maybe."

Rourke stepped closer.

"That's a dangerous choice."

Caleb smiled.

"So is following desperate people into the desert."

Rourke raised his rifle.

Then a voice echoed from the rocks.

"Put it down."

Rourke looked around.

Apache warriors appeared on the ridge.

Not six.

Not ten.

Nearly twenty.

Rourke's men immediately became nervous.

Caleb hadn't known they were there.

Neither had Rourke.

Hosa rode forward.

"This land has room for everyone who comes peacefully."

Rourke laughed.

"I don't want land."

Hosa's eyes narrowed.

"What do you want?"

"The horses."

"No."

Rourke raised his rifle.

Caleb stepped between them.

"Walk away."

Rourke looked at him.

"You think they'll protect you?"

Caleb answered quietly.

"I don't need them to."

The first shot came from Rourke's side.

It struck the ground.

The Apache warriors fired into the air.

A warning.

Rourke's men hesitated.

They were outnumbered.

Then something unexpected happened.

One of Rourke's men lowered his rifle.

"I didn't sign up to kill anybody."

Rourke turned.

"What did you say?"

The man swallowed.

"I said I'm leaving."

He backed his horse away.

Another followed.

Rourke cursed.

Within seconds, the group began to fracture.

Rourke stared at Caleb with pure hatred.

"This isn't finished."

Caleb watched him ride away.

"No," he said quietly.

"I don't think it is."

That evening, Hosa gathered the camp.

They had a decision to make.

They could continue north.

Or they could confront Rourke before he returned with more men.

Some wanted to fight.

Others wanted to run.

Caleb remained silent.

Hosa finally asked:

"What do you think?"

Caleb looked around the circle.

"I think Rourke knows about the spring."

A murmur spread.

"He'll come back."

A warrior named Tomas spoke.

"Then we should kill him."

Caleb shook his head.

"If we kill him here, others will come."

Tomas frowned.

"If we let him live, he will return."