She studied him.
“You showed me the rocks.”
“Yes.”
“You carried my child across the creek.”
He had forgotten that part.
The memory returned violently.
A little girl too frightened to cry.
“Yes.”
The aunt slapped him.
Hard.
His head turned.
The daughter took a step forward.
Her aunt stopped her with a look.
The frontiersman faced the older woman again.
“You deserved that,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You brought them.”
“Yes.”
“You knew the trail.”
“Yes.”
“You stood with them.”
His voice nearly failed.
“Yes.”
The aunt's eyes filled.
“My husband died there.”
The frontiersman closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You know that a man died. You do not know what was taken from me.”
He opened his eyes.
“You're right.”
The woman studied him.
He did not defend himself.
Did not say he had saved her.
Did not say he had not fired.
Did not say he had spent three years suffering.
Because suddenly all those statements seemed unbearably small.
The aunt said, “Why return?”
“Men are coming.”
She looked toward her niece.
The daughter explained.
The aunt's face became hard.
“How many?”
“Six.”
“When?”
“Before morning.”
The older woman looked at the stranger.
“And you came to warn us.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He almost answered because it is right.
But he had learned to distrust easy answers.
So he said, “Because three years ago I arrived too late to become the man I should have been.”
The aunt stared at him.
“And now?”
“Now I would like to arrive early.”
A long silence followed.
Then the older woman turned toward the settlement.
“We prepare.”
The attack came before dawn.
The former sergeant underestimated them.
He expected sleeping families.
Instead, he found an empty settlement.
The chief's daughter had moved everyone into caves above the canyon.
The frontiersman remained below.
Alone.
Or so it appeared.
He sat beside a fire.
The former sergeant rode into the settlement with five men.
He laughed when he recognized the frontiersman.
“I knew you'd come back.”
The stranger stood.
The former sergeant dismounted.
“You should have kept running.”
“Probably.”
“You always were weak.”
“Yes.”
The answer confused him.
The stranger continued.
“I used to think weakness was refusing to shoot.”
The sergeant smiled.
“It was.”
“No.”
The frontiersman looked at the surrounding canyon.
“Weakness was knowing something was wrong and still staying quiet.”
The sergeant's expression changed.
“You planning to preach me dead?”
“No.”
A rifle clicked above them.
Then another.
Then another.
The sergeant looked toward the ridges.
Apache fighters stood among the rocks.
The chief's daughter appeared above them.
Her rifle aimed directly down.
The sergeant's men panicked.