I: A Dry Wind From The North
The wind that morning tasted of sand and heat, rattling my spurs as I rode into Red Mesa. I’m John McCall, born and bred on my father’s cattle ranch east of town. For as long as I can remember, cattlemen and sheepmen kept their distance—until Marcus O’Neal, the son of a Mexican mother and an Irish father, arrived six months back with grazing claims that touched every creek and arroyo we’d always considered ours. Now halfway through summer, his two thousand head of sheep had stripped grass where our cattle drank and grazed.
I tied my mare to the hitching post outside the general store and scanned the gathering crowd. Faces were drawn tight: men in Stetsons, chests heavy with starched shirts and gunbelts. Some spat, others jabbered about legal rights and water laws. Old Sheriff Haddock leaned on the porch rail, cigarette dangling from his lip. He gave me a nod that carried more worry than reassurance.
By noon I found Marcus knee-deep in Willow Creek, sheep clustering at his feet like pale ghosts. He looked up at me—no fear, only stubborn resolve. “John McCall,” he called. “I’ve paid my dues, McCall. These sheep won’t move.”
I shifted my weight, hearing the distant clip-clop of my own cattle herd on its way to water. “You’re killing grass and foulin’ water,” I said quietly. “This creek feeds our stock.”
His lips curled with a half-smile. “Then share it, hermano. There’s water in these hills enough for both—if you’ll only see sense.”
I felt a hot flash in my chest: sense? I drew a breath, picturing my father’s hands callused from decades of hauling bales and fencing miles of barbed wire. My blood boiled. “We’ll see about that.”
