A man lay on the ground, his leg clamped tight in the rusted, merciless jaws of a number five bear trap. He was massive. His shoulders broad and powerful under a buckskin shirt, his long black hair matted with sweat and pine needles. He was Apache. Luke pulled Roan up short.
The warrior stopped thrashing the moment he saw the horseman. He froze, his chest heaving, his face a mask of sweat and dirt, twisted in agony, but his eyes were clear. They were black and burning with a rage so potent it seemed to heat the air between them. The Apache did not beg. He did not cry out for help.
Instead, he reached down with a trembling hand to the sheath at his belt and drew a long, heavy knife. He rolled onto his side, putting himself between Luke and the trap, raising the blade in a shaking hand. He looked like a wolf that had been broken but was still ready to tear the throat out of anything that came close. Luke stared at him. The trap was chained to a heavy log, a cruel device set by fur trappers who did not care what they caught.
The steel teeth had bitten deep into the warrior's calf. The snow around the leg was stained dark crimson. Luke looked at the knife, then at the man's face. He knew what this man was. This was the enemy.
This was the terrifying shadow that haunted the nightmares of every settler and soldier in the territory. If Luke rode away, the cold and the wolves would finish the job before morning. The world would say it was one less savage to worry about. But Luke looked at the leg again. He saw the way the muscle jumped and quivered.
He saw the white bone of the ankle exposed where the skin had torn. He felt a sick, heavy feeling in his gut. He had seen enough men die. He had seen enough bodies left to rot. He swore softly under his breath.
"Don't you do anything stupid," Luke said aloud, his voice sounding flat in the cold air. The warrior snarled something in his own tongue, a harsh, guttural warning, and jabbed the knife at the air. Luke holstered the rifle but kept his hand near his revolver. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, his boots crunching in the snow. The Apache flinched, his eyes darting to Luke's gun hand, then back to his face.
"I am not going to shoot you," Luke said, holding his hands out where the man could see them, "unless you make me." He walked slowly toward the trapped man. The warrior dragged himself backward, the heavy log groaning as it plowed through the dirt. The trap clanked, and a fresh wave of blood soaked the buckskin legging. The warrior hissed through his teeth, his face going gray with shock, but he did not drop the knife. Luke stopped 10 feet away.
He unslung his canteen and shook it. The sound of water sloshing inside made the warrior's eyes flicker. "Thirsty?" Luke asked. The man stared at him, suspicion warring with desperate need. Luke took a drink himself, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, then took a step closer and tossed the canteen.
It landed in the dirt near the warrior's hand. The Apache watched him for a long moment, then snatched up the canteen. He struggled with the cap, his hand shaking, before tipping it back and draining half of it in greedy gulps. When he lowered it, the knife came right back up. Luke sighed.