The exhausted colt limped away slowly from the mesa’s edge, dropped his head into the first patch of dried brown grass he found, and began eating. The sun was closer to the western skyline by the time the colt had eaten his fill. He found himself in one of the small groves of cedar trees that dotted the middle of the mesa. He was still hungry, but as he stood in the shade of the low-branched, sweet-smelling trees, his eyes began to get very heavy. His tail lazily swished back and forth, sending the flies that were trying to get to his open wounds back into the air. The dislodged flies would buzz around for a second or two before once again landing on or near a wound, taking a quick meal and eventually laying their eggs in the cuts.

The colt stayed in the shade of the little grove of trees and dozed off and on until the blazing sun slowly dropped down behind a distant mountain range to the west. The sky turned a brilliant yellow, then it changed into different shades of bright red and purple before finally giving way to dark blues and black. It was only then the air started to cool and the colt felt like moving again. He wanted to eat and he did lower his head and nibble a bit, but he was actually much more thirsty than he was hungry.

It had been nearly two full days since he had drunk anything, and his body, wracked with pain, was also dehydrating. He didn’t know where the herd had gone, but he knew where they had been and he also knew there was water about a half day’s walk to the north, toward the herd’s traditional grazing lands. The mesa he was on sloped very gradually downward to the northwest and dropped nearly six hundred feet in elevation over a seventeen-mile stretch to a large dry valley with a river flowing through the middle of it. Normally, the river would be nearly twenty feet wide with gently sloping banks, knee deep with cool, clear water and an abundance of green grass all along the banks on both sides. But in this year of drought the river had shriveled into nothing more than a seven-inch-wide sliver of mud with hardly enough water in it for the herd to quench its thirst from a long days journey. Still, water was water and he knew it wasn’t going to come to him, so he would have to go to it.

Instinctively the colt slowly left the comfort of the cedar grove and started moving down the mesa toward the valley with the little river. It wasn’t the best time of day for a horse to be on the move. Especially a horse injured as badly as he was. It was early evening, when the predators became active. Normally not many predators would be interested in an animal his size, especially if he were in or near the protection of the herd. As big as he was he’d be too hard for a cougar to bring down by itself if he were healthy. But he wasn’t healthy, nor was he in the protection of the herd. He was alone and injured and would be an easy target for a predator, should he come across one. There was no question moving to water was a risk. But it was one he had to take. After all, while there was a chance he could get killed by making the journey, if he stayed on the mesa without water, he was certain he would die.