Luke held the trap open for another second, then stepped off the springs. The jaws slammed shut with a crack that sounded like a gunshot, snapping a dry stick that had fallen across the pan. Luke collapsed back into the snow, breathing hard. The warrior had dropped the knife. He was clutching his leg, his head thrown back, his chest heaving.
Luke didn't give him time to go into shock. He scrambled up and went to Roan, grabbing his saddle blanket and a spare shirt from his bags. He ripped the shirt into strips. He found two straight sturdy branches on the ground and snapped them to length. He knelt beside the warrior again.
The bleeding was bad. "Hold still!" Luke commanded. He worked quickly, packing the wound with the cleanest cloth he had, binding it tight to stop the flow. The warrior watched him, his face pale, sweat freezing on his brow. He did not make a sound as Luke set the splint and tied it off with strips of the saddle blanket.
When it was done, Luke sat back on his heels. His hands were covered in the man's blood. He wiped them on the snow. "You are a lucky son of a." Luke said. The warrior looked at his leg, then at Luke.
He reached out and touched Luke's arm. It was a brief, hesitant contact. He spoke a single word in Apache, his voice raspy. Luke didn't know the word, but the tone was enough. He stood up and looked at the sky.
It was turning a deep indigo blue. The first stars were appearing. "We can't stay here." Luke said. "You'll freeze before midnight." He looked at the warrior's size. The man was nearly 6 and 1/2 ft tall and built like a darker version of the mountains themselves.
Luke looked at Roan. The horse was strong, but this was going to be a load. "Up." Luke said, panting as he bent down and hooked his arm under the warrior's shoulder. It took 5 minutes of struggling, cursing, and slipping in the snow to get the man into the saddle. The warrior nearly passed out twice, his face going slack, but he held onto the pommel with a grip of iron.
Luke took the reins. He looked at the trail ahead. Earlier in the afternoon, he had seen a thin wisp of smoke rising from a canyon to the east, maybe 4 miles away. It could be prospectors. It could be outlaws.
But given the feathers tied into this man's hair and the moccasins on his feet, it was likely his people. Luke knew that walking into an Apache camp was a good way to get killed. He knew it with every instinct he possessed. But he looked at the man slumping in his saddle, blood dripping slowly onto the snow. He couldn't just dump him under a tree.
Hell of a way to die. "Carver." He muttered to himself. He started walking, leading the horse through the darkening woods. The journey was a blur of exhaustion. The wind picked up, driving icy needles into Luke's exposed face.