He watched the east, waiting for the gray line of morning to crack the sky. His ranch was a skeleton. The corrals were made of sunbleleached cedar that splintered to the touch. The main house was sturdy but scarred. The paint peeled away by years of wind that carried sand sharp enough to scour glass.
He had three hired hands left. Two were young drifters who would move on when the work got too hard or the pay got too thin. The third was Luis, a vicero who had ridden with Cal's father and possessed a face made of tanned leather and patience. Luis came out of the bunk house rolling a cigarette. He walked with the bow-legged gate of a man who had spent 40 years in a saddle.
He stopped by the porch, struck a match on his boot heel, and lit the tobacco. "The boys are talking," Louise said quietly. "He did not look at Cal. He looked at the dry water trough." "Let them talk," Cal said.
"They say you have lost your mind." "Patron, they say you offered the whole herd for a savage woman. They say the bank will come for the land before the week is out if you give away the stock." Cal took a sip of the coffee. It was cold.
If the bank wants the land, they can come and dig the wells themselves. There is nothing here but debt and dust. Luis turned his head slowly. You are not a fool, Cal. You do not throw away a thousand horses for lust.
I remember you when you were a boy. You were afraid to speak to the girls at the church dance. You are not this man. Cal looked up at his friend. The old man's eyes were dark and shrewd.
Luis knew him too well. It is bait. Luis, Cal said, his voice lowering to a whisper that the wind could not carry. Bait for who? For the agent?
For Reed? Luis exhaled a long plume of smoke. You play a dangerous game. You make yourself a monster so the real monster will step out of the shadows. He stepped out a long time ago, Cal said.
He just wears a suit while he does it. I need to get close to the Apache elders. I need them to trust me, but I cannot walk into their camp without getting shot. And they cannot come here without the town hanging them. "So you buy a knight?"
Luis said, the distaste evident in his tone. "To talk. To show them the ledger," Cal said. "To show them where their cattle went. To show them that the war coming down on their heads is a business deal, not a judgment from God."
Luis was silent for a long time. The windmill shrieked again. The woman, Luis said finally. Does she know she has the key to the door? No, Cal said, "And that is the part that will send me to hell."
Louise. Luis dropped the cigarette and crushed it into the dirt. We are already in hell. Patron, you are just trying to turn down the heat in the canyon of the Chirik Kahwa. The dawn brought no relief.
The air remained heavy, trapped between the red walls. The camp was awake, buzzing with attention that felt like static before lightning. The news of the rancher's offer had spread like a fever. It was debated at every fire. It was whispered by the women as they scraped hides and argued by the men as they checked their weapons.
To the young warriors, men whose blood ran hot and who had never known a time of peace. The offer was a declaration of war. They wanted to ride to the broken spur and burn it to the ground. They wanted to drag the white man behind a horse until there was nothing left of him. But the elders were pragmatic.
They looked at the winter stores which were empty. They looked at the horses grazing on the sparse grass, rib thin ponies that would not last the first snow. 1,000 horses. It was a number that defied comprehension. With 1,000 horses, they could trade.
They could travel. They could survive. Gojo sat in his lodge, cross-legged on a pile of furs. He was cleaning his rifle, the oil rag moving in slow, rhythmic circles. Naelli sat across from him, grinding corn in a stone metate.
The rasping sound of stone on stone was the only noise in the lodge. He shames us, Gojo said, his voice low, but he offers power. Naelli did not look up. She focused on the rhythm. Push, pull, grind the colonel.
Break the husk. You are considering it, she said. Gojo stopped cleaning. He looked at her. His eyes were hard, devoid of affection.
He saw her not as a person, but as an extension of his own will. If I refuse, the people starve. Gojo said. If I agree, I look like a man who sells his wife. So you are worried about how you look.
Nielli said, stopping the stone. Not about what it is. Gojo stood up, his movement sudden and violent. He crossed the small space and loomed over her. Do not speak to me of what it is.
You are a woman. You are here to serve the band. If your shame buys food for the children, is that not a worthy trade? Ni looked up at him. She saw the calculation in his face.
He was already spending the horses in his mind. He was already planning how he would frame this to the others. That he was a great leader making a sacrifice. That he was tricking the stupid white man. And what of me?
Naelli asked softly. After the night is over, Gojo sneered. After you will be unclean, I will have to purify you perhaps with the whip to drive the white man's stink off you. A cold calmness settled over Naelli. She realized then that Gojo did not hate the offer because it hurt her.
He hated it because it challenged his ownership. He would agree to the deal, take the horses, and then he would punish her for his own decision. She went back to grinding the corn. The sound was louder now. Stonecrushing grain.
I will do what is needed, she said. Gojo watched her for a moment, looking for rebellion, looking for fear. He saw only the top of her head and the rhythmic motion of her arms. He grunted and left the lodge. Naelli waited until the flap closed.
Then she stopped. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them against the cool stone of the medite. She was terrified. Not of the rancher.
She remembered his desperate eyes, but of the trap closing around her. She was a piece on a board, moved by men who thought the world belonged to them. But even a pond can change the game, she thought, if it survives long enough. The second meeting took place 3 days later. This time, the location was closer to the canyon mouth, a spot where the msquet grew thick and the ground was broken by dry ravines.
Cal arrived driving a wagon. He had no escort. He had told Luis to stay back. This had to be done alone. The wagon was loaded not with horses, but with sacks.
The Apache party was waiting. Gojo was there along with two elders, gay-haired men with faces like dried riverbeds and a dozen warriors. Ni was there too, standing by the horses wrapped in a blanket that covered her from neck to ankles. Cal stopped the wagon and set the break. He stepped down, keeping his hands open and away from his waist.
I brought a token, Cal said to show good faith. He pulled a knife from his belt and slit the top sack. White salt spilled out, glistening in the sun. He slit the next one. Coffee beans, dark and oily.
The third sack held tins of peaches. The smell of the coffee hit the air, rich and strong. The warriors shifted. It had been months since they had smelled real coffee. "This is not payment," Cal said, addressing the elders directly.
"This is a gift. The horses are waiting at the line shack near the needle rock. One of the elders, a man named Coochis, not the great chief, but a cousin who carried the name, stepped forward. He looked at the salt. He dipped a finger in it and tasted it.
Why? The elder asked. Why do you do this? White eyes. You have land.
You have cattle. Why do you want this woman? Cal looked at Naelli. She was watching him, her face framed by the blanket. Her eyes were dark pools of judgment.
Because I am a lonely man. Cal lied. His voice was flat. Rehearsing the script he had written for the hidden audience. And because I have heard she is the heart of your people.
I want to see if the stories are true. Gojo stepped forward. He kicked the sack of salt. You think we are dogs? You throw us scraps?
I think you are hungry. Cal said, "And I think you're smart." He walked closer to the elders, lowering his voice so that only they and Gojo could hear. "Listen to me," he said. "The Indian agent has men on the ridge.