She did not turn, just spoke in a low, husky voice, deep as wind in a stone cave: "You do not die from the wound. You die from pride."
He caught his breath and let out a faint, bitter laugh. "Anyone else would have left me for the vultures."
Nahon looked at him over her shoulder, her deep black eyes unreadable. "I did not save a white man. I saved someone who was thirsty."
Her words silenced him.
Corbin looked around. A few Apache warriors stood guard, their eyes watchful. In a corner, an old woman stirred a pot of medicine, the bitter smell rising thick into the air. No one spoke. No one smiled. Only the fire crackled among faces carved like sandstone.
A warrior stepped forward, whispering something in their native tongue. Nihoni replied, her voice cold and firm. Corbin could not understand the words, but he understood the tone: they were arguing about him. Some of them looked at him with pure hatred, like they were just waiting for her nod to end it right there.
Finally, Nihoni stood, tall and commanding like a living statue. "He stays until he can walk."
One warrior growled in protest. She answered with a single look that made him step back.
That night, Corbin barely slept. He heard distant drums, the whinny of horses echoing from the foothills. In those sounds, it hit him: this woman had risked her life to save his. Before he drifted off, he saw Nihoni sitting by the tent entrance, her eyes fixed on the moon. The wind stirred her hair, and silver light touched her sun-darkened face and the hard lines of muscle drawn like steel. She looked like the spirit of this land: wild, proud, and alone.
Corbin whispered, knowing she could not hear him, "Thank you, woman of the wind."
Three days passed. Corbin's wound had started to heal, but in the eyes of the Apache warriors, he was still a stranger in a forbidden land. They walked past him without a word, casting glances as cold as stone.