The noon sun hammered the red stone of the Arizona desert like molten iron. The heat was so fierce that even the lizards had vanished beneath the rocks, hunting for the smallest patch of shade. Ryland Voss, a 35-year-old cowboy with a face darkened by years beneath the open sky and hands toughened by hard labor, rode his horse Flint toward the little town of Dusty Creek. He had spent the last 3 days tracking wild horses through the mountains, and all he wanted now was to get home, wash the trail dust from his skin, and stretch out in a real bed. Flint picked his way steadily across the burning sand.
Ryland whistled an old range tune while studying the endless horizon. There was something beautiful about the desert, golden, silent, ancient. Then he saw movement. Roughly 200 yd ahead, beside a towering cactus, something shifted in the glare. Ryland narrowed his eyes beneath the brim of his hat.
They were not animals. They were people, and judging by the way they were huddled there, they were in serious trouble. He dug his heels into Flint's sides and sent the horse racing forward, throwing up a long cloud of golden dust. Hot wind whipped across his face. By the time he drew close enough to see clearly, something tightened hard inside his chest.
An Apache woman sat on the ground with her back pressed against the cactus. Five small children clustered around her. Their lips were cracked, their skin burned red by the sun, and their eyes were hollow with exhaustion. The children looked almost exactly alike, quintuplets, and none of them seemed older than five or six. The woman lifted her face toward Ryland.
There was no fear in her eyes, only bone-deep weariness and a sorrow heavy enough to break a man's heart. "Please, sir," she whispered in strained English. Water. My children need water. Ryland swung down from Flint before the horse had fully stopped.
He hurried toward them with his leather canteen already in his hand. Dropping to one knee beside the nearest child, he found himself staring into two enormous dark eyes filled with desperate hope. "Easy there, little one," Ryland said gently. "Drink slow. Real slow."
He tipped the canteen carefully against the child's lips. The youngster drank as though that water were the richest treasure ever found in Arizona. Ryland watched the dullness in those dark eyes slowly give way to life, like stars appearing one by one at sundown. Then, with endless patience, he moved from child to child. All five drank eagerly, carrying the terrible thirst of people who had come far too close to dying.
Only after the children had finished did Ryland offer the canteen to the woman. She drank while tears carved clean trails down her dust-covered cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much. My name is Yara.
These are Kea, Reco, Sani, Daro, and Merie. Ryland reached into his saddle bags and pulled out some hard bread and strips of dried beef. He broke the food into smaller pieces and handed them around. The children ate with the desperate hunger of youngsters who had gone far too long without a proper meal. As they ate, Ryland studied their faces.
They were filthy from the trail, their hair tangled, their clothes torn and sun-faded. Yet there was something in them the desert had failed to destroy. A stubborn spark of life, bright and beautiful beneath all that suffering. "What are you doing out here by yourselves?" Ryland asked.
"Where are your people?" Yara lowered her eyes. Her hands began to tremble. They left us behind," she said, her voice cracking. My people had to move north quickly.
The US cavalry was riding after us. The trail ahead was long and dangerous. My children were little, too little to keep pace. Toan said we were slowing everyone down, that we might put the whole group in danger. They left us here 2 days ago with hardly any water.