Steel on the Mesa

They took the boss's daughter to pull our men off the mesa. It worked for about nine hours. I found Catalina Delacroix sitting on the tailgate of a truck she'd stolen, a rifle across her knees and two dead men behind her in the dust. She didn't need rescuing. She needed a driver. We didn't drive home. We drove the other way, through arroyos and small-town parking lots, with the whole rival family looking for two people they thought were easy. She can shoot. She can ride. She can read a survey map better than I can. She knows what's under our land and why they want it. Sunday they come for the mine. She takes the ridge. I take the road. Whatever happens on that mesa happens because she's the one who chose to stand there with me.