The first hundred yards felt manageable.
By the first half mile, the frontiersman's legs were shaking.
By the second, his breath came like fire in his chest.
Snow collected on his hair.
The warrior's long black hair hung down his back.
One bandaged leg rested across the frontiersman's chest while the other hung behind.
The frontiersman gripped the man's thigh with one hand and wrist with the other.
Every few minutes he stopped.
Every time he stopped, the wounded warrior said the same word.
“Go.”
The stranger began to suspect it was the only English word the man intended to use again.
So he went.
The storm thickened.
The mountain disappeared.
The frontiersman's world became boots, snow, breath, pain.
At some point the warrior spoke near his ear.
“You leave horse.”
“He'll find shelter.”
“Horse good.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“You foolish.”
The frontiersman nearly smiled.
“You just figured that out?”
Another mile passed.
The warrior's body grew heavier.
“Stay awake.”
No response.
The frontiersman shook him.
“Stay awake.”
A faint movement.
“Tell me something.”
Silence.
“Anything.”
After a long pause, the warrior murmured, “My father kills you.”
The frontiersman stopped walking.
“That supposed to encourage me?”
“My people see white man carrying me.”
“Yes?”
“They kill you first.”
The frontiersman looked over his shoulder as though he might somehow see the man's expression.
“Then perhaps you should tell them not to.”
The warrior gave a weak sound that might have been laughter.
They continued.
Near dusk, the trees changed.
The frontiersman noticed small signs.
A cut branch.
Tracks beneath new snow.
A cord tied high around a pine where horses had once been tethered.
They were entering occupied country.
The wounded warrior stirred.
“Stop.”
The frontiersman did.
The warrior attempted to raise his head.
A sound came from the trees.
A birdcall.
Then another from farther away.
The frontiersman understood immediately.
Signals.
He slowly lowered the wounded man onto his feet, but the warrior's injured leg folded.
The stranger caught him.
Figures appeared between the pines.
Three.
Then six.
Then ten.
Men carrying rifles and bows moved through the snow without the clumsy noise the frontiersman had made for miles.
Weapons rose.
The frontiersman froze.
The wounded warrior said something loudly in Apache.
Nobody lowered a weapon.
A young fighter rushed forward.
He saw the blood.
Then he saw the white man.
His rifle lifted.
The frontiersman slowly raised both hands.
The wounded warrior spoke again.
Sharper this time.
The young fighter hesitated.
Then people emerged from farther down the slope.
Women.
Children.
Older men.
A camp lay hidden in a sheltered valley below.
The frontiersman understood two things at once.