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Heat-shrunk Drybone Ridge watches a sheriff post an order leasing every well to a cattle baron. Drifter Silas Rook wanders in as Ruth Calder refuses to pay, and her family’s well is chained after sabotage. A saloonkeeper whispers of an old grant—and a hidden way into the county office.
Sun hammered the valley until even the bones of fence posts showed white as chalk. Drybone Ridge lay like a long knuckle of stone above the town, its shadow crawling slow over clapboard fronts and hitch rails. Dust rode the air, tasting of old wood and the last sweat of cattle driven too hard. Silas Rook came in out of that glare, coat pinned back from his holster, canteen empty enough to crinkle when he squeezed it. He had the walk of a man measuring trouble by the yard and deciding how much of it he meant to buy.
A nail struck tin, sharp and final. Sheriff Morgan Pike, beard trimmed neat as a bookkeeper’s line, was tacking a folded order to the post by the public pump. He had two deputies behind him and three riders in Slate’s colors, hats tipped, spurs quiet, hands never far from gun butts. Folks drifted from doorways and porches. Alma Reed left the swing of her saloon doors and leaned an elbow on the rail, eyes narrowing. A mother hushed a thirsty toddler. An old ranch hand set down a bucket and swore under his breath.
Pike turned, voice carrying. “By authority of the county and the circuit judge, all wells, springs, and pumps within the town limits fall under a temporary lease.” He tapped the paper with his knuckle. “Administration by Slate Water & Range. Fees posted. Receipts provided. This is to prevent waste in a time of emergency.”
“Emergency,” someone repeated, like the word itself might split and spill water. Another man said it plain: “A damn thirst tax.”
Pike fixed him with a narrow look. “Mind your tongue. You’ll pay at the pump until the drought breaks or the county lifts the order.”
Silas drifted closer. He didn’t read the paper. He didn’t need to. He read the way Slate’s riders stood: loose, confident, like the ground already belonged to their boss. He read the way the sheriff’s hand hovered near his belt, not in fear, but habit born of being obeyed.
Across the street, Ruth Calder shouldered through the little crowd, sun dark on her forearms, gray kerchief tied back. Her boy, Owen, gangly and sharp-eyed, kept a grip on their dented bucket. Ruth looked at the sign, then at the men around it, and her mouth thinned. She reached for the pump handle.