The antlers missed Che by inches, catching the fabric of his shirt, but not the flesh. The bull stumbled, off balance in the deep powder. A single shot rang out. The bull collapsed, sliding to a halt 5 ft from Luke. Taza lowered his smoking rifle.
Silence returned to the valley, ringing in Luke's ears. Che stared at Luke, his face pale. He looked from the dead bull to the white man who had jumped in front of it. Luke pulled himself out of the snow, brushing the powder from his coat. He was shaking, the adrenaline crash hitting him hard.
"You are crazy, white man." Taza called out, a grin splitting his face. Luke managed a weak smile. "I prefer distraction." They butchered the animals where they fell, quartering the meat to carry it back. It was a bloody, messy business, but to Luke, the smell of raw meat was the smell of life. They returned to the camp at dusk, the horses laden with meat.
A cry of joy went up from the people. Luke spent the evening by the fire, helping to skin the bull elk. His hands were raw and red from the cold and the blood. His knife moving with practiced, rhythmic strokes. He was exhausted, every muscle screaming, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
He had provided. He had earned his keep. He felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked up. Ayanna was standing a few feet away.
She wasn't looking at the meat. She was looking at him. She watched the way his hands moved, sure and steady despite the cold. She saw the blood on his clothes, the exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders. She had heard the story from Che.
She knew he had thrown himself in front of the bull. She remembered his words by the fire. "I choose who I stand with now." For the first time, the wall of hatred she had built brick by brick around her heart felt a tremor. It wasn't gone. It wasn't even crumbling yet, but there was a crack, a hairline fracture where the light was getting in.
She saw a man who was freezing, starving, and working himself to the bone for people who despised him. She stepped forward, holding a small gourd of warm tallow and herbs, salve for chapped hands. She placed it on the rock beside him. She didn't speak. She didn't smile.
She simply set it down and walked away. Luke watched her go. He reached out and touched the gourd. It was warm. He looked up at the stars, bright and hard above the canyon walls, and for the first time in years, the darkness didn't feel quite so absolute.
The winter finally broke, not with a sudden snap, but with a slow, agonizing surrender to the sun. The high country, which had been a white tomb for 3 months, began to weep. Snow receded from the south-facing slopes, leaving behind patches of earth that were black and rich with moisture. The silence of the deep freeze was replaced by the constant musical drip of melting ice and the roar of the creeks swelling with runoff. The tribe moved with the season.