He lifted a canteen and gave her a mocking little smile. The gesture looked generous from a distance. Up close, there was nothing generous about it. Cella studied him for a moment, then quietly lowered herself beside the trough. With her wrists still tied, she bent forward and tried to gather water between her hands.
Deak suddenly drove his boot into her. The kick struck her shoulder. Cella pitched sideways and slammed hard against the wooden edge of the trough. A small cry escaped her before she could stop it. Wade's fingers tightened around the tin cup.
Cella remained on the ground only a moment. Then she forced herself upright. Dust clung to her clothes. Pain tightened her face. But she did not plead with Deak.
She did not shrink away. She simply looked at him. There was such cold strength in her eyes that De's smug expression faltered. For one brief second, the soldier actually stepped back. Wade had seen enough.
War had taught him how quickly cruelty could become ordinary when good men convinced themselves it was none of their concern. He had watched prisoners beaten because nobody objected. He had watched frightened civilians suffer because soldiers called it necessity. He had learned that injustice did not have to be grand to poison a man. Sometimes all it took was one boot striking someone who could not defend herself.
The metal cup groaned faintly beneath Wade's tightening grip. Its cold surface did nothing to cool the anger rising through him. A moment later, Silas Crowe approached the porch. He no longer carried himself with the stiff formality of an officer among his men. Instead, he wore the easy, false friendliness of someone trying to decide whether another man could be useful.
Silas tipped his head slightly. A crooked smile crossed his weathered face, the kind worn by men who had survived long enough in the West to mistake cunning for wisdom. "Friend," he said quietly, as though the two of them shared some private understanding. "Looks like you've carved out your own little stronghold here. You and I both know what it takes for a man to stay alive in country like this."
Wade said nothing. His eyes remained on the watering trough. He could still see Deak's boot striking Cella's shoulder. When Wade finally looked toward Silas, the space between them felt wider than the entire valley. Silas mistook Wade's silence for agreement.
Men like him often did. He saw another white rancher living alone in dangerous country and assumed that alone made them brothers. Silas glanced toward the wagon where Cella had returned to her seat. "We're hauling a devil back where she belongs." He said, his voice thick with contempt.
Those Apaches aren't like us. They're savages. They eat, sleep, kill, and keep moving. We've fought them long enough to know what they are. No respect, no mercy.