A drop of water stretched and fell from brass fitting on the hand-pump's mouth, then soaked into the parched, hungry earth.  Izzy placed her hand under the pump, feeling the cold artesian water drip across her hand. A drying rivulet cut into the soil, still damp from the dripping pump. Someone had stood here, primed the pump, wiped the fresh water across their face, and drank.  She felt a pressure in her chest. The pressure increased. 

     "Prince, Prince," Izzy yelled, hearing her voice echo against the hill. The hill. Prince liked to place his broad backside against the rock, soaking up the coolness. This side of the hill, the sun did not warm until late afternoon, and only for a moment, until the sun fell instantly into the desert night: dark and still.  Just because they had been here did not mean that Prince had been found. He was a valuable animal—desert-trained.  If found, he would be sold, then someone would recognize Prince. Then someone would look for them. But, the men had a car. They did not need a strong animal for finding the paths, the water, needed in a desert. They had a car they could take, making their own trails, carrying enough water to survive.

     A buzzard lazily dipped on the wind currents in the bright blue sky. Circling, circling tightly as it dipped lower: one buzzard flying. She noticed the cold drop of water on her hand, the sound of flies buzzing, and the buzzard drifting closer. In a trance, Izzy walked to Prince's favorite spot. She knew . . . she knew. Instead of landing, the buzzard flapped, rising higher in the cold sky.

She shivered. A tear, the first tear, trickled down, washing the dust from her face. Izzy mourned her father's death. She mourned Prince's death. But, mostly Izzy mourned her death and Sonny's. Just a child. A baby. What had he done? Was he being punished for being born? She didn't understand that a young child, a baby really, should be blamed, should have sinned by being born. Life was a fragile thing. And the life of a baby was more fragile still. Nothing short of a miracle could save them.

     The hot, coppery smell of death filled her nostrils. Izzy gazed at what had once been Prince. Prince so sweet, so trusting. He had stretched his neck to receive a carrot. Prince loved carrots. With his neck out-stretched, the men had slit his throat, watching the blood leak out, showing their contempt for life, the life of this mule. What did they need of mules, of horses? They had machines. They ruled the world.

     Prince had fallen to the ground, his brown eyes losing warmth. Izzy saw the flies already laying eggs into the wound on his neck. A puddle of rose-blood pooled from Prince's neck had soaked into the thirsty earth. The earth accepts this blood, this sacrifice. Prince's death, his blood and flesh, would soon bring the bigger predators.  Izzy and Sonny had to leave by nightfall. Mountain lions did not turn down fresh meat, even though they preferred to kill their own meals. If she and Sonny were still near Prince, Izzy shivered, they could become tasty morsels for big cats, wolves, or even coyotes.

     "I promise," she vowed to the surrounding hills. "I promise we will live to tell our story." The tears left dried tracks upon her checks. "I will. I will." This promise would sustain her. Our story would not be buried in the sun, in the desert, where none would know or care. First, clean the baby, and then give him water. They both needed water. If they continued without it, they would both dehydrate quickly. She needed to carry water. They would not survive at all without the precious liquid.  Pa sometimes kept supplies. She'd find them. Then leave. They had to go soon. This day would end and they needed to be gone on their journey. I can take the road and maybe reach the Taylors. They will help me get to town. The Taylors lived less than ten miles away.