15 weapons. One canteen. Zero plan. Then the girl on his back woke up. She recognized the warriors immediately.
A small urgent sound, both arms around Cole's neck, face pressed against the side of his head, and said something in Apache that was fast and important and clearly explaining a situation to people who were being unnecessarily difficult about it. The warriors didn't lower their weapons, but they didn't use them, either. She said it again, louder. Then slower, the third time, with the patience of a child who has decided adults are going to take some convincing. The warrior at the front, older, broader, a scar along his jaw, looked at Cole with the careful expression of a man doing fast math.
Cole looked back. The girl said one more thing, softer, pointing at Cole. And then, he would think about this for years, she patted the side of his head, like a dog who had done something unexpectedly right, the scarred warrior said something brief. The weapons came down. Cole let out a breath that had been waiting a long time.
Biscuit made a similar sound beside him. They'd been in agreement about most things today. The camp was three more miles north. Cole walked it with an escort of 15 Apache warriors who didn't speak to him and weren't required to. The girl, he'd catch her name as Sosi, passed between the warriors in whispers the whole march, rode ahead and kept looking back at him with an expression that was equal parts grateful and mildly impressed, as though she hadn't entirely expected him to make it.
Honestly, neither had he. The camp spread along the base of the Dragoon foothills in the way of things that are both temporary and ancient. Fires and tents and the smell of food cooking, which Cole's empty stomach registered with aggressive clarity. Children appeared and then didn't, pulled inside as the party arrived. Dogs, horses in a rough corral to the east, and people watching.
A lot of people watching. Cole kept his hands visible and his face neutral, which was easier than it should have been because he was mostly concentrating on not falling down. His legs had opinions about the last seven miles that they were expressing through his knees. They brought him to the largest tent. Inside, cedar smoke, firelight, the smell of something sharp and medicinal, and sitting across from the entrance on a folded blanket was the oldest man Cole had seen in some time.
Not fragile, old the way granite is old, like something that has simply outlasted everything that tried to wear it down. The kind of certainty that doesn't announce itself, Chief Gray Elk. He didn't know the name yet. He'd learn it in the next 10 minutes. What he knew immediately was that this was a man who had never spent a moment unsure of where he stood.