"The stage driver said General Crook has established a peace council at Skeleton Canyon," Sarah said quietly, looking at Chato’s face. "He said the government has promised that if the Bedonkohe lay down their rifles, they will be given lands in the high mountains of the White River, where the streams run cold and the white settlers cannot enter."
Chato set his fork down slowly. He picked up the tin cup, blew the steam from the dark liquid, and took a long, slow swallow before looking out over the greening valley.
"A paper from Washington is written with water, Sarah," Chato said, his voice dropping into a somber, hollow register. "The ink dries, the wind blows, and the words are carried away like smoke. Goyahkla knows this. He will not go to the council. He will fight in the Sierra Madre until the last cartridge is spent and the last pony is eaten."
Sarah looked at him, her heart aching with the profound, tragic weight of his words. "And you, Chato? Will you go back to Mexico to die in the rocks?"
Chato looked down at little Thomas, who was happily rolling his carved horse across the bronze toes of his moccasins.
The warrior reached down, his calloused, battle-hardened thumb gently brushing the soft cheek of the child. The fierce, terrifying mask that had struck down two outlaws the night before dissolved completely, leaving behind only the deep, ancient sorrow of a young man who had seen his entire world crumble to dust.
"My heart is tired of the blood-trail, Sarah," Chato whispered, the English words coming slowly, chosen with painful deliberation. "I have buried my mother in the snow. I have buried two brothers beneath the red limestone. When I look into the eyes of the blue coats, I see only more graves. And when I look into the eyes of Goyahkla, I see only fire that must burn until everything is ash."
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the small, steady tick-tick-tick of Thomas’s silver pocket watch, which lay upon the cedar table behind them, its mechanical rhythm carrying through the open window.
"Tazhi died in the winter pass," Chato said softly.
Sarah gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, tears springing instantly to her eyes. "Tazhi? The old mother?"
"Her lungs turned to water in the high frost," Chato nodded, his voice level and steady despite the grief that shadowed his eyes. "She did not weep. Before she closed her eyes, she told me: Go to the house of the miner's widow. Watch over the boy who carries the name of the rock. Tell him that an Apache woman held him before he knew the light."
Chato reached into his deerskin pouch and pulled forth a small, heavy object wrapped in oilskin. He unfolded the cloth with infinite reverence, revealing a pair of tiny moccasins—the very ones Sarah had sewn with split sinew under Tazhi’s instruction in the high wickiup three summers before, their toes beaded with small, white river shells.
"She kept them against her heart," Chato said, placing them gently into Sarah’s lap. "She said they must return to the feet that will walk the new road."
Sarah picked up the tiny moccasins, pressing them against her cheek, weeping silent, hot tears for the fierce, generous old woman who had sheltered her when the entire world was an iron furnace of cruelty.
"Stay here, Chato," Sarah begged, looking up through her tears, reaching out to grasp his bronze wrist. "Do not go back to the reservation. Do not go to Mexico. Stay here on the San Pedro. We have three hundred acres of valley land. We have water that never dries. Thomas will grow tall with his brother beside him. We will tell the soldiers you are a scout hired to guard the stock."
Chato looked at her hand on his wrist. A faint, gentle smile—rare, beautiful, and filled with infinite gratitude—softened his hard features.
He gently covered her hand with his own, then slowly, firmly shook his head.
"A hawk cannot live in a chicken coop, Sarah," Chato said softly. "The soldiers would come. The merchants of Silver Creek would whisper in the saloons. They would bring their papers and their iron handcuffs, and sooner or later, my rifle would speak again. And this ground would be cursed with more blood."
He rose to his feet, towering tall and magnificent against the morning sky, his broad chest rising in a deep, cleansing breath of mountain air.
"I go to the council at Skeleton Canyon," Chato declared, his voice ringing with quiet, unshakeable dignity. "Not to surrender like a beaten dog, but to speak for the children who are left on the mountain. I will tell General Crook that Chato has buried his war club. I will take the people who wish to live to the high pines of the White River. We will plant our corn where the soldiers cannot see our smoke."