It was hot. The shallow place where I lay atop the desert ridge was like an oven, the rocks like burning coals. Out on the flat below, where the Apaches waited, the heat waves shimmered and danced. Only the far-off mountains looked cool. When I tried to push out my tongue to touch my cracked lips it was like a dry stick in my mouth, and the dark splashes on the rock were blood ... my blood. The round thing lying yonder with a bullet hole in it was my canteen, but there might be a smidgen of water left in the bottom - enough to keep me alive if I could get to it. Down on the flat lay my sorrel horse, who had run himself
