He does not know the song of the river." "It doesn't matter," Luke said grimly. "To them, land is money, and money is God." He told her about the towns that were springing up like weeds along the railroad tracks. He described the saloons with their piano music and cheap whiskey, the churches with their steeples pointing at a heaven they ignored on earth, and the banks where men in suits traded lives for numbers in a ledger. He told her about the prejudice that ran through those streets like an open sewer. He told her that to those men, an Apache was not a person with a history and a family, but a varmint, an obstacle to progress that needed to be cleared away like a stump in a field.
Ayanna listened, her face pale. She set the waterskin down and looked at the water. "My mother died because of that paper," she said quietly. Luke went still. It was the first time she had spoken of her loss without anger, only with a deep, crushing sorrow.
"It was the smallpox," she continued, her voice devoid of inflection. "It came with the blankets the soldiers gave us at the agency. They said it was a gift, a peace offering. My mother wrapped my little sister in one. They were both gone within a week." She looked up at Luke, her eyes dry but burning.
"My brother, the one before Taza, he tried to take a horse back from a rancher who had built a house on our summer hunting grounds. The rancher shot him in the back. The rancher said my brother was a thief. But how can you steal from a thief?" Luke felt the weight of her grief like a stone on his chest. He wanted to reach out to her, to offer some comfort, but the distance between them felt like a canyon filled with ghosts.
"I am sorry," he said, the words feeling inadequate and small. "Sorry does not bring them back," she said. She picked up the heavy waterskin and swung it onto her shoulder. She looked at him, and for a moment, the hatred was gone, replaced by a terrible, weary understanding. "You are a white man, Luke Carver, but you have the eyes of someone who has lost things, too." She turned and walked back toward the camp, leaving him standing by the rushing water.
The sound of the creek unable to drown out the echo of her pain. The fragile peace of the valley was shattered a week later. It was late afternoon. The sun was dipping toward the western peaks, casting long, golden shadows across the grass. Luke was near the entrance of the valley, checking the snares he had set for rabbits.
He was alone, a mile from the main camp. He heard the sound of hooves before he saw them. It was a heavy, clumsy sound, not the rhythmic gait of Apache riders. He moved quickly, scrambling up a rocky outcrop to get a view of the trail below. Five riders were coming up the draw.
They were white men, dusty and trail-worn. They rode with the loose, swaying posture of men who had been drinking from a jug since breakfast. They were laughing, their voices loud and jarring in the quiet air. Luke recognized the type instantly. Drifters, hands from some outfit looking for strays, or maybe just trouble.
If they crested the rise, they would see the smoke of the Apache camp. They would see the horses, and they would ride back to town with a story that would bring the cavalry down within 2 days. Luke didn't hesitate. He couldn't let them reach the crest. He checked his rifle, then slid it into the scabbard on his back.
He didn't want to start a shooting war if he didn't have to. He pulled his hat low, rubbed dirt on his face to mask the relative cleanliness of his shave, and spurred Roan down the slope, intercepting them on the trail. He came around a bend and pulled up, blocking the path. The five riders reined in, surprised. Their hands drifted to their guns, but they didn't draw.