Eli Mercer had been lost in the Arizona Territory for two days when he found the river. By then his canteen was dry, his lips had split from heat, and the old map he bought in Santa Fe had become little more than an expensive piece of paper covered in roads that did not exist. His horse, a chestnut gelding named Jasper, was tired enough to stumble on level ground. So when the animal suddenly raised his head and pulled toward a narrow break between the red cliffs, Eli let him choose the direction.
The water appeared like something the desert had been hiding on purpose. A clear ribbon wound between sandstone walls, shaded by cottonwoods and willow brush so green they looked impossible against the copper-colored earth. Eli stared at it for several seconds before dismounting because after enough hours without water, a man stopped trusting beautiful things. Jasper did not share his doubt and nearly dragged the reins from Eli’s hand trying to reach the bank.
“All right,” Eli muttered. “If it kills us, at least we die hydrated.”
He knelt at the edge and drank carefully at first. The water was cold, clean, and sweeter than anything he could remember tasting. After filling the canteen and letting Jasper drink, Eli removed his hat, boots, gun belt, and dusty shirt, then stepped into the river.
He had spent seven days riding west from Texas toward California. Every mile had left something on him—dust in his hair, salt on his skin, soreness in his shoulders, and the constant fear that he had mistaken leaving home for having a destination. The water reached his waist, and for the first time since crossing into Arizona, Eli felt his body relax. He closed his eyes and lowered himself beneath the surface.
For several seconds, there was nothing except water.
Then he heard a bowstring tighten.
Eli opened his eyes.
Men stood among the rocks on both sides of the river. He counted eight immediately, then twelve, then realized more were appearing from behind brush and stone until nearly twenty warriors formed a wide semicircle around the water. Every bow was drawn.
Eli raised both hands slowly.
“I’m leaving,” he said in Spanish. “I didn’t know this belonged to anyone.”
Nobody moved.
“I only needed water.”
Still nothing.
The strange part was their faces. Eli had expected anger, but what he saw looked closer to disbelief. Two younger men glanced at each other as though they were trying very hard not to laugh.
A sharp whistle came from above.
The bows remained raised while an older man descended from the rocks. His hair was streaked with gray, several eagle feathers were tied behind one ear, and the lines across his face belonged to someone who had spent more years solving other people’s problems than creating his own. He stopped at the riverbank and studied Eli.
“Come out,” he said in Spanish.
Eli obeyed.
The older man looked at his abandoned boots, gun belt, and hat, then at the dripping cowboy standing in the shallows.
“You choose unusual places to bathe.”
Eli glanced toward the arrows.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
A few warriors smiled.
The older man did not.
“Do you know this river?”
“No.”
“Do you know these lands?”
“Apparently not very well.”
That earned another quiet laugh from somewhere behind him.
The older man folded his arms.
“My name is Tahoma. I lead the Red Mesa people.”
Eli nodded cautiously. “Eli Mercer. Texas.”
“I know what Texas looks like.”
Eli decided silence might improve his situation.
Tahoma pointed toward the river.
“This water is called Moon Promise.”
Eli waited.
“Two hundred years ago, according to our elders, a medicine woman said the man who entered this water without invitation, without greed, and without knowing what it meant would one day join the chief’s family.”
Eli blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
Tahoma did not smile.
“The river has been guarded for generations.”
Eli looked behind him at the water.
Then back at the chief.
“So I committed some kind of sacred offense.”
“That would be simpler.”
Eli frowned.
Tahoma continued.
“You may have fulfilled a marriage tradition.”
For several seconds, Eli honestly believed dehydration had finally reached his brain.
Then a woman’s voice cut across the riverbank.
“He did nothing of the kind.”
The warriors shifted aside.
A young woman stepped through them.
She looked about twenty-three, tall and straight-backed, with long black hair woven into a single braid decorated with turquoise beads. A hunting knife rested at her belt, and a short bow hung across one shoulder. Her expression suggested Eli had personally arranged this entire disaster just to inconvenience her.
Tahoma turned.
“Yara.”
“Father.”
She looked directly at Eli.
“That man doesn’t even know where he is.”
Eli raised one hand.
“On that point, we completely agree.”
Yara ignored him.
“You cannot expect me to marry someone because he got lost and decided to wash himself in the wrong water.”
“The elders will decide what the tradition requires.”
“I already know what I require.”
Tahoma’s jaw tightened.
“Yara.”
“No.”
She stepped closer to Eli.
Water still ran from his hair.
His trousers were soaked.
One sock was missing because the river had stolen it.
Yara looked him up and down.
“This is fate?”
Eli sighed.
“Believe me, ma’am, this is not how I imagined introducing myself to my future wife either.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do not call me that.”
“Gladly.”
Tahoma pinched the bridge of his nose.
The warriors were openly amused now.
Yara pointed toward Eli’s horse.
“He should leave.”
Eli nodded enthusiastically.
“Best idea I’ve heard all morning.”
Tahoma turned sharply.
“Nobody leaves until the council meets.”
Both Eli and Yara stared at him.
The chief continued.
“You will come to our settlement. Tomorrow the elders will decide what the river means.”
Eli picked up his boots.
“And if the elders decide it means nothing?”
“Then you continue west.”
“And if they decide otherwise?”
Tahoma looked toward his daughter.
“Then both of you will have decisions to make.”
Yara’s face hardened.
“The decision is already made.”
Tahoma looked tired rather than angry.