He had given his coat to the warrior, wrapping it around the man's shoulders. Luke walked in his vest and flannel shirt, his body numb, his feet stumbling on roots and rocks he couldn't see. Every shadow looked like an ambush. Every snap of a twig sounded like a bowstring. Luke kept his eyes moving, his hand resting on the neck of his horse for warmth.
It was fully night when they smelled the smoke. It was wood smoke, rich and heavy. They came over a low ridge and looked down into a box canyon protected from the wind. Below, glowing like embers in the dark, were the fires of a camp. There were wickiups scattered among the boulders, blending into the land so well that a man might ride past within 50 yards and never see them.
Luke hesitated. He could leave the man here. He could fire a shot in the air to attract attention and then run. But the warrior groaned, swaying dangerously in the saddle. He was slipping away.
If he fell off now, he wouldn't get up. Luke ground his teeth together and started down the slope. He didn't make it 20 yards before the night came alive. One moment, there was silence. The next, the brush erupted.
Men materialized out of the darkness as if they had been woven from the shadows themselves. Luke jerked on the reins, halting the horse. He did not reach for his gun. He knew it was useless. There were a dozen of them.
They were lean, hard men with paint on their faces and rifles in their hands. A bowstring creaked as it was drawn taut. Luke raised his hands slowly, showing his empty palms. "Don't shoot!" he called out, his voice cracking. "I have a wounded man." The warriors rushed him.
Strong hands grabbed him, dragging him down from the horse's neck where he had been guiding it. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. A rifle barrel was jammed into his cheek, pressing his head into the frozen dirt. He heard shouts, the rapid-fire exchange of the Apache tongue. He heard the horse whinny as they pulled the massive warrior from the saddle.
He waited for the knife. He waited for the bullet. "Hold." The voice was not loud, but it cut through the chaos like a blade. It carried the weight of absolute authority. The pressure of the rifle barrel eased slightly.
Luke turned his head, spitting dirt. An older man was walking through the circle of warriors. He wore a heavy buffalo robe, and his hair was gray, hanging in two long braids wrapped in red cloth. His face was a map of deep lines and scars, but his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and unyielding. This was a man who had seen everything under the sun and feared none of it.
This was Naantan. Even Luke, who had only heard the name in whispered rumors around army campfires, recognized the bearing of the chief. Naantan looked at the warrior being supported by three men. He saw the splint. He saw the white man's coat draped over his shoulders.