Thomas caught her.
She was heavier than he expected.
"Come on."
She resisted.
"You're going to die out here."
That seemed to persuade her.
He carried her toward the barn.
Inside, Thomas laid her on a bed of clean hay.
He brought a blanket.
Then a bowl of water.
He cleaned the wound on her forehead with a cloth.
She watched him the entire time.
"You don't trust me."
She said something in Lakota.
Thomas sighed.
"I don't understand a word you're saying."
She stared at him.
Then, surprisingly, she laughed.
It was a tiny sound.
Barely there.
But it was the first sign that she was still alive beyond the wounds and exhaustion.
Thomas smiled despite himself.
"There you are."
She closed her eyes.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
Thomas spent the entire night sitting beside her.
He did not sleep.
Every few hours, he checked her breathing.
At dawn, she opened her eyes.
This time, she sat upright immediately.
Her hand searched for the knife.
Thomas pointed to the small table.
"I put it there."
She saw the weapon.
Then looked at him.
"You could have taken it."
She spoke English.
Her accent was heavy, but the words were understandable.
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
"So you do speak English."
"A little."
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
"Anpetu."
"Anpetu."
She nodded.
Thomas pointed toward himself.
"Thomas."
She repeated it.
"Thomas."
He pointed toward her.
"Anpetu."
She nodded again.
Then she stood.
Thomas expected her to leave.
Instead, she looked through the barn doors toward the horizon.
Her expression changed.
"What?"
She whispered something.
Thomas followed her gaze.
Still nothing.
"Are they coming?"
She turned toward him.
"Not coming."
"Then what?"
She looked directly into his eyes.
"They are already here."
Thomas felt the skin on his neck tighten.
"What do you mean?"
She stepped outside.
Thomas followed.
They crossed the yard.
Then she pointed toward the ridge.
Thomas squinted.
At first he saw nothing.
Then he saw movement.
One rider.
Then another.
Then five.
Then dozens.
Thomas stopped breathing.
The horizon seemed to fill with horses.
They were everywhere.
On the northern ridge.
Along the eastern tree line.
Near the creek.
Behind the rocks.
More appeared from the hills.
Thomas counted twenty.
Then fifty.
Then stopped.
There were too many.
Anpetu stood beside him.
Thomas slowly looked at her.
"You knew."
She nodded.
"How many?"
She watched the riders.
Then answered quietly.
"Five hundred."
Thomas stared at the surrounding hills.
Five hundred warriors.
His farm had one rifle.
Two shotguns.
A handful of ammunition.
Three horses.
A barn.
A farmhouse.
And a man who suddenly realized none of those things mattered.
The riders did not attack.
They simply watched.
Thomas turned toward Anpetu.
"Why are they here?"
She looked at him.
"Because you saved me."
Thomas swallowed.
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
She walked toward the edge of the yard.
The riders began moving.
A single horse descended from the northern ridge.
An older man rode it.
His hair was gray.
His face was marked with age.
A long coat moved in the wind.
Behind him rode several warriors.
Anpetu stepped forward.
The older man stopped twenty yards from Thomas.
He said something in Lakota.
Anpetu translated.
"My father asks why you touched his daughter."
Thomas looked at her.
"She was dying."
The older man spoke again.
Anpetu listened.
Then translated.
"He asks why you gave her water."
Thomas frowned.
"Because she was thirsty."
The chief studied him.
He spoke again.
Anpetu's expression became serious.
"My father says a white man does not usually give something for nothing."
Thomas almost laughed.
"Then your father has met the wrong white men."
Anpetu translated.
The chief stared at him for a long moment.
Then he dismounted.
He walked closer.
Thomas did not move.
The chief stopped several feet away.
His eyes were sharp.
He looked at Thomas.
Then at the farmhouse.
Then at the barn.
Then at Anpetu.