Caleb froze.
Men appeared among the trees.
One.
Five.
Ten.
Then more.
Rifles.
Bows.
Knives.
A dozen weapons aimed directly at his heart.
Caleb slowly lifted both hands.
The injured warrior said something from the saddle.
Everything changed.
Men rushed toward him.
Two caught him as he slipped from Rust.
Voices rose urgently.
A woman screamed his name.
“Nantan!”
An older man pushed through the gathering.
He had silver threaded through his long dark hair and the calm, hardened expression of someone accustomed to obedience.
The camp silenced when he appeared.
Caleb knew before anyone spoke.
Chief.
The older man knelt beside Nantan.
He examined the wounded leg.
Then the bandages.
Then Caleb’s coat around his son.
His gaze lifted.
“What happened?”
The English surprised Caleb.
The chief spoke it slowly but clearly.
“Trap.”
Caleb pointed behind him.
“Bear trap.
In the pass.”
Nantan spoke rapidly.
The chief listened.
His eyes moved once toward Caleb’s unloaded rifle.
Then toward the gun belt still tied to Rust’s saddle rather than Caleb’s waist.
Nantan continued.
The chief said something to the surrounding warriors.
Weapons lowered.
Not completely.
But enough.
“My son says you put down your weapons.”
Caleb nodded.
“He says you gave him water.”
Another nod.
“He says you opened the iron with your own body.”
“I stepped on it.”
Nantan said something else.
The chief’s eyes shifted to Caleb’s left shoulder.
“You were hurt.”
“I’ll survive.”
The older man studied him for a long moment.
“My name is Takakota.”
“Caleb Morrison.”
Something flickered in the chief’s face.
So quickly Caleb almost missed it.
Not recognition.
Something stranger.
Confirmation.
Then it disappeared.
“Come.”
Nantan was carried into a large shelter.
A healer followed.
Caleb remained outside.
Dozens of people watched him.
Some curious.
Some openly hostile.
Then a young woman stepped through the crowd.
Caleb noticed her immediately.
She was perhaps twenty-four.
Tall.
Dark hair braided over one shoulder.
A knife hung at her waist beside a small leather pouch.
She did not carry herself like someone frightened of strangers.
She carried herself like someone deciding where best to stab one.
Her eyes moved from Caleb to Nantan’s blood on Rust’s saddle.
Then back.
“Who are you?”
Her English was better than Takakota’s.
“Caleb.”
“That is a name.”
“Usually what people mean when they ask.”
Her expression did not change.
“That was not what I asked.”
Caleb exhaled.
“Traveler.”
“No.”
“Cowhand sometimes.”
“No.”
“Scout once.”
Her gaze sharpened.
Caleb immediately regretted the word.
Behind her, Takakota emerged.
The woman turned.
“Nantan?”
“He will keep the leg if the wound does not rot.”
Relief flashed across her face.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Then Takakota looked toward the center of camp.
“Call everyone.”
Caleb frowned.
“For what?”
Takakota did not answer.
Within minutes, men, women, children, and elders gathered in a broad circle.
Caleb found himself standing in the middle.
He disliked circles.
Circles made running difficult.
Takakota stepped beside him.
Nantan’s sister stood on the chief’s other side.
Takakota raised one hand.
The camp fell silent.
“This man found my son dying.”
He spoke first in his own language, then repeated enough in English for Caleb to understand.
