Enemy.
That was the word hanging between them in the freezing air, sharp and unyielding.
To the Apache warrior, Caleb was simply another white man with a gun—another soldier, trapper, or land-grabber who had come to burn, shoot, and take. To Caleb, the warrior was a living, breathing shadow of Tonto Basin—a sharp, sudden reminder of everything he had spent three long, bitter years trying to outrun.
Caleb slowly lowered the barrel of the revolver.
The warrior's dark eyes narrowed, his breath rising in thick clouds of steam as his grip tightened on the bone handle of the knife.
Caleb deliberately slid the Colt back into its leather holster, snapping the retaining strap back into place. Still, there was no trust in the clearing. The tension was a living thing, stretched thin like a bowstring.
Caleb took one cautious step forward, his hands held out open at his sides.
The Apache slashed his knife through the air with a vicious, warning sweep, his upper lip pulling back over his teeth in a snarl of pure defiance.
Caleb backed away immediately, taking two steps back to where he had started. "Fair enough," Caleb said quietly, his voice calm and unhurried.
The warrior said something harsh and guttural in his native tongue, his voice dry as ashes. Caleb did not understand the language, but he understood the meaning perfectly.
Come closer and die.
Caleb looked down at the massive iron trap. The heavy spring was fully compressed on the right side, but the jaws were buried deep into the meat and bone of the man’s calf. Then Caleb looked at the dark pool of frozen blood beneath the leg.
The man might have an hour left to live. Maybe less if the cold took his core temperature down first.
Caleb reached slowly inside his heavy coat, taking care not to make any sudden moves, and pulled out his leather canteen.
The warrior raised the knife again, his arm shaking violently from fatigue and fever.
Caleb did not advance. He unscrewed the metal cap of the canteen, took a long swallow of cold water himself to prove it wasn't poisoned, then stepped forward just far enough to place the canteen gently on the snow. He pulled his boot back and kicked the canteen across the crust until it bumped against the warrior's left knee.
The warrior stared down at the leather flask. Then he looked up at Caleb, his dark, bloodshot eyes searching the white man’s face for treachery.
Finally, the warrior lowered the knife an inch, reached down with his left hand, unscrewed the cap, and drank deeply, water spilling down his chin and freezing on his neck.
When the warrior finished drinking, he threw the empty canteen back toward Caleb. It landed with a soft thud in the snow near Caleb's boots.
Caleb picked it up, slung it back over his shoulder, and looked carefully at the iron trap. "I have to get those jaws open," Caleb said, pointing a finger at the heavy double springs of the bear trap. "You keep trying to gut me with that skinning knife, and we're both going to freeze to death out here."