When Whitehawk spoke, his English was thick, guttural, and measured, each syllable weighed carefully before being released.
"You speak the tongue of the white men who write on paper," the chief said. "You know where you stand?"
"I know I’m on your ground, sir," Ethan replied, swallowing hard to moisten his parched throat. "And I know I came in without an invitation. For that, I apologize."
"You did not come to steal our horses?"
"No, sir. I have my own horses. One of them ran off, which is why I’m here."
"You did not come scouting for the blue-coat soldiers at Fort Grant?"
"I don't ride for the army, mister. Never have, never will. The army minds their business, and I mind mine."
Whitehawk’s eyes narrowed slightly, digging into Ethan’s face, searching for the telltale twitch of an eye, the swallowing of saliva, or the shallow breathing of a man telling an artful lie.
"You have cattle?" the chief asked.
"Twenty head of mixed Mexican steers, sir," Ethan answered truthfully. "Tied off in a box draw five miles back. That's my whole worldly wealth."
"You have a great lodge?"
Ethan gave a dry, humorless shake of his head. "I lease a quarter-section of dirt near the Santa Cruz. A one-room cabin with a sod roof that leaks every time the clouds gather."
"You have wives?"
"No, sir. Never had the time or the money to court one."
Whitehawk turned his head and looked at Ayana. "My daughter has turned away one hundred warriors of her own blood. Men who have killed bears with lances. Men who have driven the blue-coats into the rocks. Men who own herds of fifty horses." The chief turned his gaze back to Ethan, his eyes piercing. "And she points her finger at a ragged stranger who sleeps in the dirt and chases a runaway beast."
"With all respect to your daughter, sir," Ethan said plainly, "she made a mistake. I’m nobody. If you let me walk out of this canyon, I’ll take my horse and you'll never see my face again."
"A mistake?" Whitehawk echoed. He took a half-step closer, his deep voice dropping into a register that only Ethan, Ayana, and the nearest elders could hear. "My daughter does not make mistakes of the spirit. Her eyes see what is written in the stone before the chisel touches it."
The chief paused, the heavy silence settling around them once more. The torches scattered around the perimeter began to flare as the night wind picked up, casting long, dancing shadows against the sandstone bluffs.
"I ask you one thing, white man," Whitehawk said, his tone dropping into deadly seriousness. "If my daughter chooses you... what do you choose?"
The entire valley seemed to lean in, waiting for the answer.
It was a trap of bone and iron. Ethan’s mind raced through the terrible mathematics of his situation. If he jumped at the offer, claiming the chief’s daughter out of vanity or opportunism, Whitehawk would see him as a greedy, dishonorable dog and have him slaughtered before he took another breath. If he spat on the offer, rejecting Ayana with contempt or revulsion, the pride of the entire Chiricahua nation would demand that he be stripped, staked to the earth, and left for the red ants.
He looked past Whitehawk’s shoulder. Ayana was watching him. There was no mockery in her eyes, no fear, and no vanity. She was merely looking at him with an intense, quiet curiosity—as if she were waiting to see what kind of foundation lay beneath his dusty exterior.
Ethan took a long, slow breath. He let his shoulders drop. He took his hands down from his chest, letting them hang empty at his sides, and looked Chief Whitehawk dead in the eye.
"I choose to tell you the God's honest truth," Ethan said clearly, his voice carrying through the cool night air. "I don’t know her."
A sharp hiss of breath swept through the elders behind the chief.
"What did you say?" Whitehawk’s brow darkened.
"I said I don’t know her," Ethan repeated, refusing to blink. "A man can’t choose a woman he doesn't know. Out on the range, I wouldn't trade for a mule without looking at its teeth and checking its legs, and a man’s life is worth a damn sight more than a mule. Your daughter is a chief's child, proud and beautiful, and I can see she holds her head high. But I’m a working drover. We don't speak the same words, we don't pray to the same God, and we don't know what makes the other person angry or glad."