Two, Luke would repeat. She would cackle at his pronunciation, her toothless mouth wide, and correct him. A young boy, no more than seven, began to shadow him. He was shy, hiding behind bushes, but eventually curiosity won out. He would point to a horse and whisper, Loon.
Loon. Luke would say. The boy would giggle and cover his mouth. Luh-lee, he would correct. Luh-lee.
Luke would smile. E-lee. It was a small thing, this exchange of words, but it made the hostility of the rest of the camp bearable. However, whenever Ayanna was near, the temperature seemed to drop. She never spoke to him.
She would stand with her arms crossed, watching him stumble over the guttural sounds, her expression unreadable, but distinctly cold. She refused to help him. If he asked for a tool or a direction, she would look through him as if he were made of glass. Two weeks into his captivity, the rhythm broke. It was mid-afternoon.
The sun was high and pale. Luke was repairing a corral fence when a whistle pierced the air. Sharp. Three short blasts. The camp exploded into motion.
It wasn't the domestic bustle of morning. This was panic controlled by drill-like discipline. Mothers grabbed children. Warriors grabbed rifles. Luke stood up, scanning the ridge.
He saw the scout riding down, his horse lathered. He spoke rapidly to Nantan. Luke moved toward the chief. A warrior stepped in his way, a knife drawn. Luke pushed past him, ignoring the blade.
Soldiers? Luke asked Nantan. Nantan looked at him, his face grim. A patrol. 10 Miles east.
Coming fast. Luke looked at the terrain. The camp was in a depression, hidden from casual view. But if they were sweeping the grid, they would find it. How many?
Luke asked. Two score. The scout said in Apache. 40 Men, Nantan translated. They are looking for water, Luke said instantly.