All right. You are a warrior, a good one. But you are also white. That makes you dangerous. Not to us, necessarily, but to our survival.
Nashoba's voice was calm but firm. If the soldiers find you here with us, they will use it as an excuse to attack. They will say we are harboring fugitives, consorting with the enemy. Ethan felt his stomach sink. You want me to leave?
No. We want you to understand the risk. If you stay, you put all of us in danger. Not from your actions, but from what others will believe about your presence. Nashoba leaned forward.
So, I ask you, why do you want to stay? What are you running from or toward? Ethan looked at Ayla, then back at Nashoba. I'm not running anymore. I'm staying because this is the first place in 5 years that feels like it might become something.
Not home, not yet, but something. And when the soldiers come, because they will come, then I'll fight, same as you. The woman elder spoke for the first time, her voice sharp and clear. You will fight, yes, but will you die? Because that is what we are asking.
If you stay, there's a good chance you will not see another summer. I know. And you accept this? I do. She exchanged glances with the other elders.
Then Nashoba nodded. Then you stay, but not as a guest. You will train our young men, teach them to fight like soldiers, teach them tactics, strategy, how to think like the enemy. Can you do this? Yes.
Good. We leave in 1 hour. Be ready. The meeting was over. Ethan stood feeling both relieved and terrified.
He'd just committed to staying with a hunted people in a dying land, teaching kids to fight a war they'd probably lose. But for the first time in years, he'd chosen something instead of just letting life happen to him. That had to count for something. They moved north, deeper into the labyrinth of canyons and mesas that made up the heart of Apache country. The terrain was brutal, steep climbs, narrow passes, dry creek beds that could flood without warning.
But the Apache moved through it like they'd been born knowing every rock and turn. Ethan struggled to keep up. His horse stumbled on loose scree. He got turned around twice in identical-looking canyons. By the time they stopped for the night, he was exhausted and humbled.
Kael found him sitting by the fire, rubbing his sore legs. The kid said something that sounded sympathetic and handed him a waterskin. Ethan drank gratefully. Thanks. Kael mimed riding a horse, then falling off, then getting back on.
The message was clear, keep trying. Yeah, Shan, Ethan said, I'll get better. Over the next few days, he did, slowly, painfully, but he learned. He learned to read the land the way the Apache did, looking for signs invisible to untrained eyes. He learned which plants held water and which would make you sick.