The terrified rider didn't wait to argue. He grabbed the lead reins of the horses and drove the wounded men down the trail as fast as they could go, disappearing into the timber below.
Caleb walked back up the slope to the cave.
Goyah was sitting on a flat stone near the entrance, his hickory longbow leaning against his knee, unbinding his dark leather wrist guards.
Caleb sat down on the rock across from him, resting his hands on his knees, feeling a deep, profound exhaustion settling into his bones.
Goyah looked at Caleb, his dark eyes scanning the white man's pale, blood-splattered face. He pointed a finger at the torn sleeve of Caleb’s sheepskin coat. "You bleed."
"Just a graze," Caleb said, looking down at the shallow red streak on his arm. "It's nothing."
Goyah stood up slowly, using his oak crutch to steady himself. He walked over to Caleb, reached into his pouch, pulled out a small handful of crushed oak bark, and pressed it directly onto Caleb's arm wound.
Caleb winced at the sting, then looked up at Goyah.
The two men looked at each other across the small stone hearth.
There were no military uniforms between them now. There were no bared knives, no blood bounties, no historic grievances, and no old hatreds. There were only two men who had stood together in the dark and fought off the ghosts that tried to consume them.
"You are a good warrior, Caleb," Goyah said, his English clear and deliberate.
"So are you, Goyah," Caleb replied gently. "So are you."
The following morning, the mountain weather was warm and clear—a gentle chinook wind blowing from the southwest, softening the crust on the snow fields and opening the lower passes.
They packed their gear near the entrance of the rock cave.
Caleb had given Goyah one of the captured hunting knives, a heavy woolen blanket, and a sack of dried beef and coffee to speed his journey home. Goyah could walk now with the aid of his oak stick, his crushed leg healed enough to carry his weight across the softening trails.
They led Rust down the slope to the main mountain fork, where the trail split into two distinct paths.
To the south, the trail descended through the green timber toward the Apache lands and the distant, rugged mountain ranges where Goyah’s people lived.
To the west, the trail wound down toward the valley plains, leading toward new territories, open grasslands, and peaceful towns where a man could build a quiet life.
They stopped at the wooden signpost marking the fork.