Someone was alive in there.
Someone was trying very hard to stay that way.
The frontiersman closed his eyes briefly.
“Damn you,” he muttered, though he was not certain whether he meant the stranger or himself.
He guided the gelding off the trail.
They descended between snow-covered ponderosa pines until the slope opened into a narrow clearing.
The frontiersman saw the blood first.
Bright red droplets marked the snow.
Then he saw the man.
An Apache warrior sat against a fallen pine twenty yards away.
His left leg was caught in an enormous rusted bear trap.
The iron jaws had closed above the ankle.
Blood soaked the warrior's buckskin leggings and spread into the snow beneath him.
Yet the wounded man remained frighteningly alert.
Long black hair hung around a face drawn tight with pain.
One hand pressed against the ground.
The other held a knife.
The blade pointed directly at the stranger approaching through the trees.
The frontiersman stopped.
The warrior lifted the knife higher.
“Easy.”
The warrior said something sharp in his own language.
The meaning required no translation.
Stay back.
The frontiersman slowly lifted both hands.
“All right.”
The warrior stared at the revolver on the stranger's belt.
The frontiersman followed his gaze.
He understood.
Very slowly, he unfastened the gun belt.
The warrior's grip tightened around the knife.
The frontiersman removed the revolver with the belt and placed both on the snow.
Then he kicked them several feet away.
“There.”
The warrior watched him.
The frontiersman removed his canteen.
He took a drink first.
Then he set it on the snow and pushed it forward.
The wounded warrior did not reach for it.
His face glistened with sweat despite the freezing air.
“How long have you been here?”
There was no answer.
The frontiersman glanced at the trap.
The iron was old but enormous.
Two heavy springs held the jaws together.
Trying to pry them open alone would be dangerous.
Leaving the man there would be murder.
The frontiersman crouched.
The knife rose.
“I know.”
He pointed toward the trap.
Then toward himself.
Then he mimed pulling the jaws apart.
The warrior looked at him for a long moment.
Finally, the blade lowered several inches.
It was not permission.
It was the closest thing the frontiersman was going to receive.
He moved forward.
The warrior's breathing became shallow when the stranger reached the injured leg.
The frontiersman studied the mechanism.
The teeth had not completely crushed the bone, but the flesh was badly torn.
He would need leverage.
He found a thick branch beneath the snow and wedged it beneath one spring.
The warrior understood what was coming.