When he opened them, he looked at Caleb for a long time. The hardness in his face hadn't disappeared, but the coldness was gone.
"You speak truth with your hands, Americano," Locono said. His voice was quiet beneath the noise of his people celebrating behind him. "A man who speaks truth with his hands is a rare thing in this land."
"It’s good water," Caleb said simply, his voice hoarse. "It’ll run for three months before the head pressure drops. Enough to get you to the winter rains."
Locono nodded once. He placed his hand on Caleb’s shoulder—a heavy, dry hand that felt like seasoned wood.
"Tonight, you eat at my fire," the chief said. "And tomorrow... we pay our debt."
The fire at the center of the stronghold burned bright and hot with dry mesquite roots that cast long, dancing orange shadows against the red cliff walls.
For the first time in six months, there was meat in the camp. Two young warriors had brought down a desert bighorn sheep in the upper crags, and the ribs were now turning over the coals, dripping fat into the flames with a loud, spitting hiss that smelled better to Caleb than anything he had encountered since leaving St. Louis.
Caleb sat on a horse blanket near Locono, a wooden bowl of stewed agave and roasted mutton in his lap. His Spencer carbine and hunting knife had been returned to him, cleaned and oiled, sitting beside his saddle at the edge of the firelight.
The Apaches were quiet in their celebration. There was no loud singing, no drum-beating; they ate with the steady, quiet efficiency of people who knew that tomorrow might bring the cavalry or another week of dry trails. But the tension that had hung over the wickiups that morning was gone, replaced by a deep, settled peace.
When the meal was finished and the women had cleared the wooden bowls, Locono stood up.
He raised his hand, and the low chatter around the fire died instantly. The old chief walked to the center of the dirt ring, his red head-band bright in the firelight.
"Listen to me," Locono said, his voice carrying clearly to the edges of the camp. "This white man came to our land without soldiers. He did not come with iron in his hand to take our horses, nor did he come with paper to steal our mountains. He saw our people dying of thirst, and he gave us the cold water from the rock."
The warriors around the circle grunted in agreement, tapping the butts of their rifles against the earth.
Locono turned his face toward Caleb.
"In the old days," Locono said, "when a man saved a village, he was given horses. But the blue-coats have taken our horses, and the drought has killed our mules. We have no gold, for gold is just shiny rock that you white men die for."
The chief waved his hand toward the shadow of the cliff behind his wickiup.
From the dark, a line of figures stepped out into the firelight.
They walked in single file, their eyes downcast, their feet bare against the cold dirt. They were women—twenty-two of them—ranging from young girls of sixteen with long, blue-black hair to older, dark-eyed women whose faces bore the lines of heavy labor and deep grief.
Some were dressed in traditional Apache buckskins, their skirts fringe-trimmed with tin cones that clinked softly as they moved. Others wore the faded, torn cotton dresses of Mexican ranch women, their shoulders covered by dusty wool shawls. Two of them—younger women near the back of the line—wore the simple indigo-dyed cotton of American settlers, their skin pale despite months under the desert sun.
They were the captives—the women taken in raids along the Santa Cruz valley, off the Sonora stage roads, and from the lonely ranches along the San Pedro. They were the forgotten ones, kept in the stronghold to haul wood, tan hides, and serve the warriors who had taken their families.
Caleb set his wooden bowl down on the blanket. His jaw tightened as he looked down the long, silent line.
"These are the women of this camp who have no husbands, or whose men were killed by the soldiers," Locono said, gesturing to the line. "Some are of our blood. Some are Mexican. Some are of your people, brought from the valleys below."
The chief stepped closer to Caleb, pointing his dark finger at the center of the line.
"A life for a life," Locono declared, his voice firm as stone. "You brought life back to fifty people today. Choose one of these women. She will be your wife. She will cook your meat, carry your pack, and keep your blankets warm when the snow comes to the Dragoons. She is yours, and no warrior in this camp will ever raise a hand against her or you."
The canyon went dead silent.
The fire popped, sending a shower of red sparks drifting up toward the stars.
Twenty-two pairs of eyes looked at Caleb Vance.
Some of the Apache girls looked at him with dark, proud defiance, their chin held high, waiting to see which one would be taken into the white man’s world. The Mexican women stared at the dirt, their hands clutching their rosaries beneath their shawls, praying in silent terror.
And near the end of the line, a young white woman—her face thin and bruised, her blonde hair matted with grease—looked up at Caleb. Her blue eyes were wild, hollowed out by fear and exhaustion, pleading with a desperate, soundless terror that made Caleb’s stomach knot into an iron ball.