For more than seven hours the caravan of horses moved slowly through the dunes beneath the bright moon. An eerie silence filled the air as the soft terrain muffled the shod and unshod hoofs. During the long trek one of the other braves had spotted some sort of deer. With a swiftness and accuracy which astounded Harper the Indian had produced a bow and sent an arrow across 300 yards and killed the creature. It had been gutted and thrown across the hindquarters of the brave’s pony within minutes of the kill. Only then did Harper notice several other dead animals on the rest of the ponies. This must be a hunting party seeking game to return to their mysterious homeland, Harper thought.
The Indian who had spoken to Harper led them. Like an ancient mariner out in middle of an uncharted ocean he used the stars to lead him back to the place from which they had originally set out. For the first time in more than two days the young drifter felt safe.
Whoever these strange Indians were, he concluded, they were friendly. They were not the savages he had heard tell of by those who had only read about the West in dime novels.
Hal Harper wondered where they were headed.
He also wondered if he would ever be able to return to the place he had once called home. A place far to the east of the Pecos river.
But he would gladly remain with these people if it meant that he would not find himself in another cruel battle like the one he had been involved in back at Senora. He had never had to fight for his life before and he did not wish to repeat the experience.
As mile followed mile a thousand thoughts filtered through his mind. But, unlike those that had tormented him before he had been saved from certain death by these six strangely dressed men with long black hair, his thoughts were no longer dark.
Now he could actually imagine surviving in this desert.
He raised himself in his stirrups and looked around the strange, bluish landscape. The dunes were now thinning out and far ahead he could see towering spires of rock.
Harper looked at the rider ahead of him. A single feather was plaited into the back of his mane of hair. It floated on the warm air and danced across the man’s shoulders.
Who were these people?
Where was this land of theirs?
The description of it being the place where eagles soared high in a sky above where they lived in a golden mountain made no sense to Harper. Perhaps, he thought, the Indian had meant something else. But what?
Yet the thought of them living in a golden mountain intrigued the young horseman. Could it be true? Was there even the remotest of chances that it was true?
So many questions filled his mind. So few answers.
He kept his horse aimed after the lead rider. It was obvious that the man knew where he was headed.
Harper eased his mount alongside the pony.
The Indian pulled back on his rope reins and stopped his pony. Harper drew rein and stopped his own horse. The five others encircled them.
For a few seconds the Indians spoke to one another in their strange language and then the lead rider looked at Harper.
‘New day soon,’ he said, pointing at the horizon.
Again, Harper stood for a moment in his stirrups and stared out across the moonlit dunes to where the towering rocks stood like elongated stone fingers. Fingers which pointed at the very stars themselves.
‘What White Eyes look for?’
‘I thought there was a lake out here someplace,’ Harper said. ‘I could have sworn I saw a lake earlier.’
The Indian smiled. ‘Desert play tricks with you. It alive. It play and make you come to it. Then it kill. Desert have many ways to kill.’
A chill crept up Harper’s spine. He knew what his companion meant. There were lakes that only existed in the minds of those the desert tormented. He knew that he had come close to becoming just another pile of bleached bones. He shook again.
‘Why’d we stop, friend?’ Harper asked.
‘Horses need drink. Braves need drink.’ The Indian dropped from the back of his pony. The others followed suit.
Harper looked all around them. ‘But there ain’t no water hereabouts.’
The Indian told his fellow braves what Harper had said. They all began to laugh.
‘Hey! What’s your name?’ Harper asked the Indian.
‘I am Talka.’
‘I’m called Hal.’
‘Hal.’ Talka repeated the name and then knelt down on the soft sand. His large hands started to smooth the sand away in wide, well-practised strokes.
‘What you doing, Talka?’ Harper asked.
There was no reply. Within a few seconds the answer became obvious. A thin, almost perfectly round stone was revealed. Talka looked at his fellow braves, muttered a few words and they all knelt down beside him. Each gripped the rim of the stone and began to drag it sideways.
Harper felt his jaw drop in amazement. He stepped closer and stared into the hole. Even the eerie moonlight could not hide the sight of the water rippling. Water where the reflection of the large moon danced.
‘A well? Out here?’
Talka looked up. ‘Water.’
Harper nodded. ‘I’ll be damned!’
The Indians went to their ponies and pulled the large water bags from off the animals’ shoulders. One by one they dropped them into the cold, fresh liquid until they were filled.
‘Like Talka said,’ the Indian explained. ‘You have to know where to look, White Eyes Hal.’
‘But how?’ Harper could not comprehend.
‘Many moons ago my people had wells all over this land,’ Talka explained. ‘There were trees then. We always protected the water. Then the desert came. Slow at first. Then fast. The sand killed everything but not the water.’
Harper watched as the Indians watered their ponies and put the bags back over the shoulders of the creatures. He helped Talka return the flat stone over the waterhole and push the sand back over it.
‘You have more of these waterholes, Talka?’
The Indian smiled. ‘Many.’
They mounted again and drew their reins up to their chests. Talka pointed at the horizon. The very edge of the desert was starting to show signs of a new day. It appeared as though a glowing fire was out there just where the land met the sky. A fire which would soon erupt and send its light hurtling across the desert.
‘We must go,’ Talka said. ‘Not safe out here when sun comes back.’
Suddenly the distinctive sound of rifle fire broke the desert’s silence. One of the Indians screamed out in agony and slumped over the neck of his mount.
Harper drew his Colt and spun his horse full circle in a vain attempt to see who had fired the shot.
‘I thought you said them five critters that was hunting me were asleep, Talka? They must have trailed us here.’
‘Not white men.’ Talka reached across from his own pony and grabbed the mane of the wounded Indian’s mount.
Harper closed the distance between them. ‘Not white men? Then who?’
Talka pointed.
A score of mounted figures were lined up on a dune 200 yards to their left. The sunlight sped over the desert and crept up the dune. The twenty horsemen were then bathed in the red, glowing illumination.
It was a terrifying sight.
‘Who are they?’ Harper yelled.
‘They Apache.’
‘Why they shooting at us?’
‘They war party. They want our food.’ Talka replied hurriedly. ‘They kill us to get it, Hal.’
Harper cocked his gun hammer and blasted his .45 at the distant Apaches. They did not flinch. They knew that only a rifle could span the distance between them.
‘Damn! I ain’t got the range,’ Harper said.
‘We go.’ Talka thrust his heels into the sides of his pony and began to ride hard. The others followed. Harper spurred in pursuit.
Then more rifle fire came.
‘Ride into the sun!’ Talka ordered his followers.
The seven horsemen rode into the sun.