Red Hollow Oath

The anvil rang like a church bell thrown in a well, the sound trapped and rolling up with the heat. Marigold Reyes held the red bar of iron with tongs and turned it so the curve caught the light; sparks hopped from the nail holes she punched, stinging her wrist and dying against the dirt floor of the smithy. Sweat crawled down her neck. Outside, wind pushed through tamarisk by the creek, carrying the sweet, sharp scent of water that made the whole settlement of Rattlesnake Spring cling to the bank like thirsty bees.

'You going to burn that shoe thin as paper,' Marnie Caldwell called from the doorway. Her shadow fell across the threshold, hat cocked, a dress faded by sun but stitched neat as a ledger.

Goldie quenched the iron. Steam leapt. 'Got a mule likes to toe in,' she said. 'Needs light feet.'

Marnie stepped in, eyes traveling over the blackened rafters, the neat rows of shoes and nails, the old photograph of a young woman holding tongs with a silver coin tucked in her collar. 'You hear the talk?' Marnie asked, voice low. 'Bar-Lace men seen at Dry Mesa yesterday. Barrett Sloan himself, like a crow set on a fence.'

Goldie set the fresh shoe on the bench to cool. 'Talk travels faster than dust.' She forced a smile she did not feel. 'They got no business at our creek.'

'Business goes where water goes,' Marnie said. She flicked a glance toward the creek line. 'You watch your claim papers. If you need a place to keep them, my safe still holds honest.'

'I keep them where I can reach them,' Goldie replied. Her palms still remembered the day she hammered her name into the tin sign and wired it to the spring box at Red Hollow: M. Reyes. She had ridden there at dawn, the rock glowing like a furnace, and hung the claim as if hanging a family photograph.

Hoofbeats scuffed outside. Little Tomás came around the corner leading a bay gelding missing a shoe, the boy's black hair stuck to his forehead. He was fourteen and determined to stand taller than he had. His grin made his face look almost as young as it was.

'Lady says her horse pulled a shoe on the flats,' he reported. 'I told her you could put it back better than new.'

'Lady can bring the horse to the stand if she wants it shod,' Goldie said, gentle. 'You drink yet?' She handed him a tin cup that smelled faintly of iron. He drank, and she watched his throat work, tried not to count how many cups of water the creek owed them all.

The noon whistle from the steam gin up at the cotton field squalled, and the world took a deep breath and settled back to work. Beyond the smithy, the track through town shone with metal bits dropped by wagons and hooves, the saloon shutters pushed and slapped by the occasional gust. A stray dog slept under the stage platform with its nose on its paws. Over everything, the sun hung so bright it seemed to hum.