He saw the blood. "Taza." The chief said softly. The wounded warrior lifted his head weakly. He spoke a few words, breathless and pained, pointing a trembling hand at Luke. Naantan turned his gaze to Luke.
He studied him for a long, uncomfortable minute. He looked at Luke's hands, which were raised and shaking slightly from the cold. He looked at the blood on Luke's shirt, blood that belonged to his son. "Let him up." Naantan ordered in broken English. The warriors stepped back, though their weapons remained leveled at Luke's chest.
Luke scrambled to his feet, shivering violently now that the adrenaline was fading and the cold was taking hold. "Why?" Naantan asked. He stepped closer, smelling of sage and old leather. "Why does a white man bring an Apache warrior home? Why is he not scalped and left for the buzzards?" Luke wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.
"Found him." Luke stammered. "Bear trap up on the ridge." "You freed him?" Luke nodded. "Couldn't couldn't leave him. Not like that." Naantan looked at the bandage on Taza's leg. He saw the torn strips of the white man's shirt.
He looked back at Luke, his eyes narrowing. He saw the shabbiness of Luke's clothes, the hunger in the hollows of his cheeks, and the strange, haunted look in his eyes. "You are a fool." Naantan said. "Or a brave man. It is hard to tell the difference." He gestured to his men.
"Bring him to the fire. Take his weapons. If Taza dies, this man dies." Luke was marched into the center of the camp. They took his gun belt, his knife, and even the small pocketknife he kept in his vest. They pushed him down onto a buffalo robe near a large central fire.
The heat hit him like a physical blow, painful on his frozen skin. He sat there, rubbing his hands together, watching as the camp reacted to the arrival. Women rushed out of the wickiups. A medicine man began shaking a rattle over Taza, who had been laid out on blankets near the fire. Luke felt eyes on him.
He looked up. Standing across the fire was a young woman. She was tall, straight-backed, and wrapped in a blanket woven with geometric patterns of red and black. Her hair was loose, falling around her face like a dark curtain. Her face was striking, high cheekbones, a strong nose, and a mouth set in a grim line.
But it was her eyes that pinned Luke to the spot. They were dark, shaped like almonds, and filled with a cold, pure hatred. She looked at him as if he were a disease that had walked into their sanctuary. She moved to Taza's side, pushing the men away, and began to inspect the wound herself. Her hands were gentle with her brother, but when she glanced back at Luke across the flames, her expression did not soften.
She said something to Nant'an, her voice sharp and accusatory. She pointed at Luke, then mimed a rifle. Luke understood enough. She recognized him, or she recognized his type. The drifter.