Chiricahua Moon
an excerpt

The desert wind blew constantly, but it brought no relief from the blistering August heat. At best, it served only to swirl waves of stifling calidity about the band of travelers and occasionally blast them with sand as they made their way over the parched earth. The horses shuffled along listlessly, heads down, hooves barely leaving the dry ground before planting themselves there again, as if reaching their destination depended entirely upon economy of motion. The riders sagged in their saddles, using only enough of their precious energy to keep hands on reins. Their blue uniforms were soaked through with perspiration, causing them to steam in their own clothing.

Only one in the company moved constantly and with any degree of dedication. He had no choice: Iron bands connected by a heavy chain encircled his wrists, and the chain was fastened securely to the horn of a McClellan saddle by a length of rope. Dark skinned and half naked, he alone traveled on foot.

Every ounce of the prisoner's being focused on placing one foot in front of the other in a regular rhythm. His body ached with exhaustion and cried out for water. At the back of his dazed mind lurked the fear that if he didn't find moisture soon, his senses would leave him entirely. Even now they waned periodically, causing him to stumble or lose the rhythm of his pace. Each time, he was jerked back to momentary clarity by the movement of the animal to which he was tethered.

If he lost consciousness now, he realized, it would be forever. Falling would mean a slow death as his body was dragged across the floor of the homeland for which he had fought so fiercely the past several years. Still, that option seemed preferable, in his fevered mind, to the thought of captivity among his enemies. At least death by dragging would be only brief torture, and then he could join the council fires of his ancestors and feel pain no longer.

The group reached its destination as dusk gathered, though the prisoner hardly realized that and he certainly didn’t care. That he could stop moving, stop concentrating, stop the tortured heaving of his chest as he gasped for each breath only to draw in air so hot it seemed to sear his lungs ... those were the things that mattered to him.

And maybe there was water.