“I don't know.”
The warrior studied him.
“You lie.”
The frontiersman gave a tired smile.
“Probably.”
He stood and looked toward the darkening sky.
The temperature was falling.
Clouds were gathering along the ridge.
A storm was coming.
He looked back at the wounded man.
“You have people near here?”
The warrior said nothing.
“Camp?”
Still nothing.
The frontiersman pointed vaguely through the mountains.
“Family?”
At that word, something changed.
The warrior looked west.
Only for an instant.
But it was enough.
The frontiersman followed his gaze.
“All right.”
He brought the gelding closer.
Getting the wounded warrior into the saddle took nearly ten minutes.
Twice the Apache nearly stabbed him.
Once the frontiersman nearly dropped him.
Eventually, the injured man sat sideways across the saddle while the stranger led the horse through the snow.
They traveled west.
Neither man spoke.
Behind them, the rusted bear trap remained in the clearing.
But before leaving, the frontiersman had noticed something that troubled him.
The trap had not been abandoned.
Its chain was newly secured.
And beneath the snow near the tree were footprints.
Boot prints.
Not moccasins.
Someone had placed the trap there recently.
Someone who might still be nearby.
Chapter Two — The Man Across His Shoulders
The storm arrived before sunset.
Snow began falling in thick flakes, first gently, then hard enough to erase the mountains behind them.
The injured warrior slipped twice in the saddle.
The second time, he nearly fell.
The frontiersman caught him around the waist.
The warrior groaned.
“You're not staying up there.”
He received an angry look.
“Glare all you want.”
The trail narrowed ahead.
A fallen tree blocked the safest route, and the slope beyond it was too steep for the gelding while carrying an injured rider.
The frontiersman studied the terrain.
He had two choices.
Turn back toward the trap.
Or continue on foot.
The warrior pointed toward the western ridge.
“There.”
“You certain?”
The warrior nodded.
“People.”
The frontiersman looked at the deepening snow.
“How far?”
The warrior lifted one hand.
Three fingers.
“Three miles?”
No response.
“Three hours?”
The warrior's eyes closed.
“That's helpful.”
The frontiersman tethered the gelding beneath a stand of trees.
He removed the saddlebags, blankets, ammunition, and anything else he could carry.
Then he crouched beside the wounded man.
“You're going to hate this.”
The warrior's eyes opened.
A moment later the frontiersman pulled him over his shoulders.
The Apache cursed violently.
“You have a better idea?”
Another curse.
“I'll take that as no.”
The frontiersman stood.
The wounded warrior was not small.
He was powerfully built and nearly as tall as the man carrying him.