Chapter 1 - The Trap in the Snow
The metallic snap echoed through the pine forest like a rifle shot.
Caleb Morrison’s horse stopped so abruptly that Caleb nearly went over the saddle horn.
Then came the scream.
Not an animal.
A man.
Caleb swung down before he had fully decided to move.
Snow whipped between black pine trunks, stinging his eyes. The storm had swallowed the trail twenty minutes earlier. He could barely see thirty yards.
Another sound came from downhill.
Metal scraping stone.
Then a deep, guttural growl.
Caleb drew his revolver.
He moved through the trees carefully until he saw blood.
Bright red against white snow.
A massive man lay beside a fallen pine.
Apache.
Winter buckskin.
Dark hair half-covered in snow.
His lower leg was locked between the jaws of a rusted bear trap.
The iron teeth had torn deeply through leather and flesh.
The leg bent at an angle Caleb knew immediately was wrong.
Broken.
The warrior heard him.
His hand flashed beneath his body.
A knife appeared.
“Stay back!”
Caleb stopped.
The Apache man’s voice was strong despite the blood loss.
That made him dangerous.
Caleb instinctively tightened his revolver grip.
Then he looked at the trap.
At the blood pooling beneath it.
At the man’s pale face.
Caleb slowly holstered the revolver.
Then he unbuckled the entire gun belt.
He dropped it into the snow.
The warrior watched.
Caleb raised both hands.
“I’m not here to kill you.”
The knife remained raised.
Caleb removed his canteen.
He knelt six feet away and slid it across the snow.
The warrior glanced at it.
Then at Caleb.
“Drink.”
The man hesitated.
Finally, without lowering the knife, he grabbed the canteen and drank.
Caleb moved closer.
The warrior immediately raised the blade.
“Easy.”
“Do not touch me.”
“If I don’t, you lose the leg.”
The warrior stared at him.
Caleb pointed at the trap.
“You know that.”
Snow gathered in the man’s hair.
After several seconds, the knife lowered slightly.
Caleb crawled toward the trap.
It was enormous.
Old iron.
Probably made for bear or mountain lion.
The springs were stiff with rust.
Caleb placed both hands against the jaws.
“Name?”
The warrior frowned.
“What?”
“If I’m going to break my fingers helping you, I want something to call you.”
A pause.
“Nshoba.”
“Caleb.”
“I did not ask.”
Despite everything, Caleb almost smiled.
Then he pushed.
Nothing.
Nshoba’s breathing sharpened.
Caleb changed position.
He planted one boot against a root.
Both hands on the iron.
“On three.”
Nshoba gripped his knife and the nearby tree.
“One.”
Caleb pushed.
“Two.”
His shoulders shook.
“Three!”
The jaws moved.
Barely.
Nshoba pulled.
A scream tore out of him despite his attempt to suppress it.
Blood spread beneath the trap.
Caleb pushed harder.
The jaws opened another inch.
“Now!”
Nshoba dragged his leg free.
Caleb released.
SLAM.
The trap snapped shut inches from his hand.
For several seconds neither man moved.
Then Nshoba tried to stand.
“Don’t.”
Nshoba ignored him.
His injured leg touched snow.
It collapsed instantly.
He fell heavily into Caleb.
Both nearly went down.
Caleb caught him.
Nshoba’s knife dropped.
His entire body shook.
“Broken,” Caleb said.
Nshoba gritted his teeth.
“I know.”
Caleb cut two straight branches.
He tore strips from an old saddle cloth and made a crude splint.
The injury needed a real healer.
Maybe surgery.
Maybe the leg still would not survive.
Caleb had seen enough battlefield wounds to understand what optimism could not change.
When the splint was secured, Nshoba’s shaking worsened.
Cold.
Blood loss.
Shock.
Caleb removed his heavy brown winter coat.
Nshoba frowned.
“No.”
Caleb wrapped it around him.
The warrior stared.
Caleb now wore only a wool shirt beneath the freezing wind.
“Why?”
Caleb tightened the coat.
“Because no man should freeze to death after surviving that.”
Something shifted in Nshoba’s expression.
Not trust.
Confusion.
That would have to be enough.
Caleb struggled to get him upright.
Nshoba was enormous.
They moved through deep snow with Nshoba’s arm across Caleb’s shoulders.
Every step became a fight.
They reached the horse.
Caleb somehow forced Nshoba into the saddle.
Then he took the reins and walked.
His revolver remained behind in the snow.
He did not realize until riders appeared through the storm.
Five.
Then eight.
Then more.
Caleb instinctively reached toward his hip.
Nothing.
Nshoba lifted one weak hand.
The riders stopped.
Apache men surrounded them.
Rifles.
Bows.
Hard faces.
Caleb stood motionless.
Nshoba spoke rapidly.
The riders looked at Caleb.
Then at the coat around Nshoba.
One man moved forward.
Caleb expected a rifle butt.
Instead the rider took the horse’s reins.
They traveled deeper into the mountains.
By the time they reached the settlement, Caleb could barely feel his hands.
People rushed toward Nshoba.
An older man stepped through them.
Sixties.
Calm face.
Gray in his dark hair.
Authority without shouting.
His eyes moved from Nshoba’s broken leg to Caleb’s coat wrapped around him.
“You saved my son.”
Caleb’s teeth chattered.
“He was dying.”
The older man studied him.
“You were cavalry.”
Caleb froze.
His fingers touched the old scar near his collar.
The man said:
“Tonto Basin.”
Fire.
Smoke.
People running.
Soldiers shouting.
Caleb standing motionless while the night burned.
“I didn’t fire,” he whispered.
The older man’s eyes never moved.
“No.”
Caleb looked up.
Chief Takakota spoke more quietly.
“But you were there.”
Then he reached beneath his blanket.
Caleb tensed.
Takakota removed an old brass cavalry insignia.
Dark stains marked one edge.
He placed it in Caleb’s palm.
Caleb’s breathing stopped.
A dent crossed the brass eagle.
Beneath it were scratched initials.
N.C.
Caleb knew that badge.
He had watched Captain Nathaniel Crowe pin it on his coat every morning.
“Where did you get this?”
Takakota looked directly into his eyes.
“From the man who gave the order at Tonto Basin.”
Caleb shook his head.
“That’s impossible.”
Takakota waited.
Caleb whispered:
“Crowe died that night.”
The chief’s face remained unreadable.
“No.”
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A long beat.
“He became rich.”
