The cowboy walked toward the hitching rail.
He had already lost too much time.
His ranch sat almost twenty miles north, tucked against a long stretch of broken high desert and pine country where water determined almost everything.
The southern pasture was decent.
The eastern acreage could support cattle in spring.
But the northern spring was the reason the ranch survived summer.
Without that water, the land was worth less than the debt attached to it.
And tomorrow morning, a territorial land syndicate intended to prove that the spring did not legally belong to him.
The syndicate had arrived six months earlier buying distressed ranches.
At first, nobody worried.
Then they began purchasing small water claims.
Then access roads.
Then easements.
Then mortgages.
By the time the cowboy understood what they were doing, three neighboring ranches had already been swallowed.
His mother had always warned him that land was rarely stolen with guns when paper could do the job more quietly.
She had died two years earlier.
He missed her most whenever he needed someone to tell him which mistake he was making.
Tomorrow, the syndicate’s attorney would present a recorded claim asserting that the northern spring and the narrow pasture surrounding it had been transferred away from his family twelve years earlier.
The cowboy had searched every box his mother left.
Every ledger.
Every envelope.
Nothing disproved it.
His ranch attorney in Flagstaff had been honest.
“If their record stands, you can fight.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
“How much?”
The attorney had looked toward him.
Enough.
That was the problem.
The cowboy had land.
Horses.
Cattle.
Equipment.
Debt.
What he did not have was money for a long court battle.
So tomorrow might decide everything.
He untied his horse.
Then heard the Apache woman behind him.
“Cowboy.”
He turned.
She had recovered her saddle.
The bay horse beside her stamped once impatiently.
The cowboy looked toward her.
“Yes?”
She walked closer.
Not too close.
“You should not have paid them.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because I’m bad with money.”
She almost smiled.
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
She looked toward the trading post.
“They wanted me delayed.”
The cowboy frowned.
“Who?”
She did not answer.
Instead:
“You paid two dollars.”
“Yes.”
“For a stranger.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking what you would receive.”
He stared.
“Is this where you tell me I made a terrible investment?”
Her eyes held his.
Then she said quietly: