In the distance, a thin green line snaked across the desert. It was not desert in the Sahara sense, with sand dunes rolling like slow, dense waves. It was desert in closer to the Sonoran sense: Hot, dry, rocky soil, interspersed with sand and scattered low sagebrush.
Pincella smiled. She knew what the thin green line meant: A narrow draw, where a thin creek had carved itself into the plain. Green meant water, and water meant a place to find signs of travelers.