I helped the women onto the cart after making sure they were comfortable enough to travel the short distance. The ranch hand took the reins. The heavyset fellow walked beside him.
The deputy stood in the dust, furious and uncertain.
"This isn't finished, stranger!"
I mounted Chester.
"No," I answered. "I don't believe it is."
And I followed the wagon into Cuervo Creek.
I had been thirty-five years old that autumn, and I believed I knew most of the ways people could disappoint one another.
I was wrong.
The stagehouse stood near the southern end of town, a low adobe building with a shaded porch, two chimneys, and a stable behind it. The woman who operated the place was a gray-haired widow with broad shoulders and the kind of expression that made foolish men reconsider their words before speaking.
She took one look at the two women and opened the door.
"Bring them inside."
The older Apache woman hesitated.
The widow noticed.
"Nobody's asking you to explain anything while you're standing in the doorway. Come inside."
We carried blankets into a back room and helped the women onto separate beds. The widow brought water, clean cloths, and a basin. She inspected their wrists and ankles, then sent the ranch hand to fetch a physician from another settlement rather than the local doctor associated with the deputy.
That decision seemed ordinary at first.
Later, I would understand just how important it was.
The women were exhausted. Their ankles were bruised, and the older one had a cut near her eyebrow. Both had been deprived of food and water for much of the day. The widow insisted that they rest before answering questions.
I agreed.
The older woman did not.
She sat upright against the pillows and looked directly at me.
"You believe us?"
I pulled a chair beside the doorway.
"I believe something happened to your children."
She studied me.
"That is not the same answer."
"No," I admitted. "It isn't."
The younger woman turned toward us.
"They will come back."
I looked at her.
"Who?"
"Our husbands."
The older woman's jaw tightened.
"And the deputy."
The widow placed a cup of water beside her.
"Then they'll have to get through my front door."
The older woman glanced toward her.
For a moment, something like surprise crossed her face.
The widow folded her arms.
"I've been running this place for twenty-one years. Men have threatened me before."
I almost smiled.
Then I remembered the tree.
"Tell me what happened," I said.
The older woman looked toward the younger one.
They exchanged a few quiet words in their own language.
I waited.
Finally, the older woman turned back.