“Do not become accustomed to it.”
They spent more time together.
She taught him which winter plants could be used for medicine.
He taught her to read some English legal documents.
She hated legal English.
“This sentence has forty-six words.”
“Yes.”
“It says nothing.”
“Now you understand government.”
She laughed.
He learned more of her language.
Badly.
Very badly.
Once he attempted to ask for water and apparently requested someone's grandmother.
The camp laughed for nearly an hour.
The daughter laughed longest.
The frontiersman threatened to stop learning.
She replied that this would deprive everyone of entertainment.
In return, he taught her to play cards.
She learned too quickly.
Within three days she had won his spare gloves, a knife, three cartridges, and half a bag of coffee.
“You cheat.”
“You cannot prove this.”
“You definitely cheat.”
She smiled.
“Then you should become better.”
Their affection grew in small spaces.
Not declarations.
Not promises.
A blanket placed near him during a cold night.
A cup of coffee saved for her before dawn.
Her hand briefly touching his shoulder when passing.
His eyes always finding her first when riders returned from a hunt.
The chief noticed everything.
He said nothing.
The chief's son noticed even more.
He said far too much.
By January, the injured warrior could walk again.
He still limped.
The scar around his ankle would remain for life.
One afternoon he asked the frontiersman to follow him north.
They rode to the clearing where the trap had been found.
Snow covered the ground.
The rusted trap remained beside the tree.
The warrior dismounted.
The frontiersman did the same.
For several minutes they stood over it.
The warrior said, “I hated you.”
“I noticed.”
“When you came toward me, I wanted kill you.”
“I noticed that too.”
“You put gun away.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The frontiersman considered.
“I thought you'd be less likely to stab me.”
The warrior smiled.
Then became serious.
“You knew I might kill you.”
“Yes.”
“You helped anyway.”
“Yes.”
The warrior looked down at the trap.
“My father says debt finished.”
“It was never a debt.”
The Apache man nodded.
“I know.”
He picked up a large stone.
Then smashed the trap.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The rusted hinge cracked.
The frontiersman joined him.
Together they destroyed the iron jaws until the mechanism could never close again.
The warrior looked at the broken metal.
“Good.”
The frontiersman nodded.
“Good.”
Before leaving, the warrior picked up one half.
He handed it to the stranger.
“Keep.”
“Why?”
“Remember.”
The frontiersman looked at the rusted iron.
“I already remember too much.”
The warrior shook his head.
“Not pain.”