He studied my face, looking for something. A lie, maybe, or a trap. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he relaxed slightly and let his head fall back against the pillow. "My name is Chaska," he said.
"Silas. Silas Garrett."
"Those men who shot me, they were soldiers. They said they would take me back to Fort Stanton, but they were going to kill me."
I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "Why would they kill you?"
"Because my father is Chief Kuruk. They want to make war with my people. If they kill me and say Apaches did it, the army will have their excuse."
I sat back in my chair and let that sink in. Political murder dressed up as Indian violence. It wasn't the first time I'd heard of such things. Probably wouldn't be the last.
"Your father's going to come looking for you," I said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"And when he finds you here?"
Chaska closed his eyes. "I do not know. But you saved my life. That means something to my people."
He drifted back to sleep before I could ask what it meant. I sat there watching him breathe, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest under the blankets, and I wondered what I'd gotten myself into. The answer came two days later. I spent those two days taking care of Chaska and waiting for something to happen.
The boy's fever broke on the second morning, and by afternoon, he was sitting up and eating the thin soup I'd made from the last of my venison. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his words were careful and thoughtful, like someone who'd learned English from books and missionaries and wasn't quite comfortable with the rhythm of casual speech. He asked about the photograph on the wall. I told him the simple truth.
"My family. Dead five years. Influenza."
He nodded and didn't ask anything else. But later, when I was changing his bandages, he said quietly, "I had a brother. He died when I was 10."
"A hunting accident. My father has never been the same."
It was the only personal thing he shared, and I understood it for what it was. An offering. A way of saying he knew what loss tasted like.
On the morning of the third day, I heard horses. I was outside splitting wood when I saw them. A line of riders on the ridge to the north, maybe 30 of them, sitting their horses in perfect stillness. Even from half a mile away, I could tell they were Apache.
The way they sat. The way they moved as one unit, like a flock of birds turning in flight. I set down the axe and walked to the house. Chaska was standing at the window, one hand pressed against the glass.
"Your father?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Is he going to kill me?"