Caleb returned to the clearing. He unbuckled his canvas bedroll from Rust’s saddle, laying the heavy canvas flat on the snow beside the warrior. With immense effort, grunting and straining against the dead weight, Caleb dragged the unconscious Apache onto the canvas sheet.
Taking the end of his lasso rope, Caleb hitched the canvas sled to Rust’s saddle horn. "Easy, Rust," Caleb coaxed gently. "Slow and steady, boy."
The horse leaned into the breast collar, pulling the canvas sled smoothly across the crusted snow, dragging the wounded man up the gentle incline toward the rock shelter.
By the time the sky turned a bruised, dark violet, Caleb had established a rough camp inside the shallow cave.
He lined the frozen stone floor with a thick bed of pine boughs to insulate them from the cold rock. He laid the warrior on top of his own wool blankets, wrapping the heavy sheepskin coat around the man’s chest.
Near the mouth of the cave, where the rock overhang carried smoke outward, Caleb built a small, efficient fire. He used dry birch bark and standing dead pine—wood that burned hot and produced minimal smoke, keeping them warm without advertising their location to anyone riding the main trail below.
As the yellow flames caught, casting a cozy, flickering glow across the granite walls, the warrior groaned softly.
His dark eyelashes fluttered, and his eyes opened.
For a moment, he looked disoriented, staring up at the rough stone ceiling of the cave, feeling the gentle heat of the fire washing over his face. Then, his hand moved instantly toward his waist, searching for his knife.
"It’s over there," Caleb said calmly, pointing a finger toward a flat rock near the fire where the bone-handled knife sat beside Caleb’s own Winchester rifle. "You're safe. You're out of the trap."
The warrior slowly turned his head. He looked down at his right leg, seeing the clean, white cotton bandages bound tightly around his calf. He felt the warmth of the fire, the thick wool blankets draped over his chest, and then he looked at Caleb, who sat on a flat stone across the hearth, shaving strips of dried beef into an iron tin of boiling water.
The warrior spoke. His voice was low, raspy, and weak, but the sharp, suspicious edge remained.
"Ndee," the warrior said, pointing a dark finger at his own chest. Then he pointed at Caleb. "Paskaha."
Caleb stopped his knife, looking up. "I don't know those words, friend. My name is Caleb. Caleb Morrison."
The warrior stared at him for a long time, the firelight reflecting in his dark, unblinking eyes. He did not offer his own name. He simply pulled the wool blanket higher around his shoulders, leaned his head back against the rock face, and watched the white man with a quiet, unreadable intensity.
By midnight, the blizzard returned in full force.
The wind howled through the high mountain passes like a wounded beast, driving sheets of hard, stinging sleet against the rock face outside the cave. The temperature dropped far below zero, freezing the moisture on the fir needles into long, glittering icicles.
Inside the small rock shelter, a different battle was being fought.
The warrior had developed a roaring, dangerous fever. The trauma of the crushed leg, combined with the hours he had spent freezing in the open snow, had sent his body into a violent shock.
He tossed and turned on the pine-bough bed, muttering incoherently in his native tongue, his bronze skin flushed hot and wet with sweat. He thrashed his arms, kicking out blindly with his good left leg, fighting imaginary enemies in his delirium.