“You ask too many questions.”
“That has been mentioned.”
Elena closed her eyes again.
“Men coming.”
Caleb set the cup down.
“What men?”
She opened her eyes.
“Maybe soon.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who?”
Elena hesitated.
“Do you know Silas Crowe?”
Caleb’s expression changed.
Everyone within a hundred miles knew Silas Crowe.
Crowe owned cattle, freight wagons, a hotel, half the commercial buildings in Wilcox, and enough politicians that some people joked he owned part of the territorial government too.
Caleb did not laugh at the joke.
Crowe had tried buying his ranch twice.
Caleb refused both times.
“Unfortunately.”
Elena watched.
“You work for him?”
“No.”
“You sell horses to him.”
Caleb became still.
“How do you know?”
“I saw your brand.”
He understood.
Crowe’s men had purchased six horses the previous spring.
Caleb hated the deal.
He needed money.
“Once.”
Elena breathed carefully.
“His men shot me.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
She looked toward the window.
The answer did not come.
Caleb stood.
“If Crowe’s riders are coming to my house, I need more than his name.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“I need sleep.”
“You may need to stay alive first.”
She looked at him again.
“You help me because you want answers?”
“No.”
“Then answers can wait.”
Caleb stared.
Then laughed softly.
“All right.”
He hated that she was right.
He walked outside and loaded his shotgun.
Not because Elena was Apache.
Not because Silas Crowe’s name guaranteed violence.
Because an injured woman had arrived saying armed men might follow.
That was enough.
By sunset, nobody came.
Caleb fed Elena broth.
She ate half.
Refused more.
He brought her horse near the porch where she could see the mare through the window.
That seemed to matter.
When darkness covered the desert, Elena’s fever rose.
Caleb changed the cloth on her forehead three times.
Near midnight she began speaking in a language he did not understand.
Some words repeated.
One sounded like a name.
Joseph.
Another:
Tomas.
Then:
“Don’t let them take wagon.”
Caleb leaned closer.
“What wagon?”
Elena’s eyes opened but did not see him.
“Crowe lies.”
“What wagon?”
“Rifles.”
Caleb froze.
Elena grabbed his forearm.
Her strength surprised him.
“Morning.”
“What happens in the morning?”
Her eyes finally focused.
For one clear second she knew exactly who he was.
Then she whispered:
“Do not shoot first.”
Caleb stared.
“What?”
Elena’s hand slipped from his arm.
She lost consciousness.
Caleb remained beside the bed.
Outside, the desert wind moved against the house.
Do not shoot first.
He slept perhaps twenty minutes before dawn.
A sound woke him.
Low.
Distant.
At first he thought thunder.
Caleb opened his eyes.
The sky beyond the window was pale.
The sound came again.
Not thunder.
Hooves.
Many.