Chaska turned to look at me, and for the first time since I'd found him, he smiled. It was a small smile, uncertain, but real. "I do not think so. But I also did not think those soldiers would try to kill me."
"The world is not always what we expect."
"Helpful words."
I picked up my Winchester and stepped out onto the porch. The riders came down the slope in a slow, measured walk. They spread out as they approached, forming a loose semicircle around my house, but they kept their rifles down and their hands visible. A good sign.
Maybe. The man in the center rode a big paint horse with a white blaze across its face. He was maybe 50 years old, lean and hard, with a face that looked like it had been carved from the same red stone as the cliffs to the east. He wore a mix of traditional Apache clothing and white man's gear.
A deerskin shirt under a wool coat, buckskin leggings, and cavalry boots. An eagle feather hung from a beaded cord around his neck. He stopped his horse 20 feet from my porch and looked at me with eyes that gave nothing away. "You are Silas Garrett," he said.
Not a question. His English was better than Chaska's, smooth and precise.
"I am."
"You have my son."
"I do. He's inside. He's alive."
Something flickered across the chief's face. Relief, maybe. Or surprise. It was gone too fast to tell.
"Three men shot him and left him to die," I continued. "I found him in my north field, brought him here, and patched him up. He'll be fine in another week."
Chief Kuruk sat very still on his horse. Behind him, the other riders waited without moving, without speaking. The only sound was the wind and the distant cry of a hawk somewhere over the valley. "Why did you help him?" Kuruk asked.
It was the same question Chaska had asked, and I gave the same answer. "He needed help."
"You could have left him. Many would have."
"I've buried enough children."
The words came out before I could stop them, rough and raw. Kuruk's eyes went to the photograph visible through the kitchen window, then back to my face. He saw. He understood.
He dismounted and gestured for me to stay where I was. Then he walked past me into the house. I heard his footsteps, heard him speak to Chaska in their own language, heard the low murmur of conversation. When he came back out, his expression had changed.
Softer somehow. More human.
"You saved my son's life," he said. "According to the laws of my people, blood must answer blood. Life must answer life."
"You gave me back my son. I must give you something of equal value."
I started to say I didn't want anything, but he held up his hand. "You do not understand. This is not a gift. This is a debt."