The women hesitated, then stepped back, though they watched Luke's hands closely. Luke knelt beside the warrior. Taza's face was gray with pain, sweat beading on his upper lip, but his eyes were clear. How is it? Luke asked, gesturing to the leg.
Taza grimaced. It burns like fire ants. Luke reached out and gently lifted the edge of the blanket. The swelling was bad, but the color of the flesh wasn't the black of rot. Not yet.
He checked the splint he had made. It was holding, but the binding needed tightening. I need to adjust this, Luke said, miming the motion. Taza nodded. Luke worked quickly.
His hands felt clumsy and large under the scrutiny of the women. He tightened the rawhide strips, checking the circulation. Taza hissed through his teeth, his hand gripping the furs until his knuckles turned white, but he didn't cry out. When Luke was finished, he sat back. You are strong.
Luke said. You'll keep the leg if the fever stays down. Taza looked at him. He pointed a finger at Luke's chest. Father says you marry sister.
Luke rubbed the back of his neck. That's the idea. She isn't too keen on it. Taza made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough. Ayanna is sharp rock.
Cut you if you hold too tight. He leaned his head back, exhausted. You stay. No one hurts you. I say this.
Luke nodded. Thanks. Taza. He left the tent feeling a strange weight settle on his shoulders. He had a protector of sorts.
But protection wasn't acceptance. The days began to blur into a rhythm of survival. Luke was put to work. He chopped wood until his blisters broke and calloused over. He carried water.
He scraped hides until his arms burned. He was given a corner of a wickiup belonging to an old woman named Chay, who had lost her sons to the war and seemed to view Luke as a strange, hairless pet that needed feeding. He began to learn the language. It started with Chay pointing at things and waiting. Two, she would say, holding out a water gourd.