Ayana spoke again: fast, direct. She pointed to the bandages, to the bed, then to the photo on Silas's table.
The chief listened. "She says you gave her shelter, cleaned her wounds, slept in the chair. That you spoke kind words, though she couldn't understand."
Silas nodded. "That's all true."
"Then I owe you a debt," the chief said.
But others weren't so sure. One man rode forward, angry, arguing in Apache. The chief answered hard, but the challenger pushed back.
Ayana leaned to Silas. "Takakota," she said. "War leader under Father. He says white man brings curse."
The crowd was splitting: some stood with the chief, some with Takakota. The tension hung in the air, thick and ready to snap. The storm hadn't passed; it had just changed shape.
Takakota dismounted. His face was hard, eyes cold. He stepped close, speaking loud enough for all to hear.
"White men lie. Today he helps, tomorrow he brings soldiers."
Ezra said nothing.
The war leader pointed at him, then at Ayana, spoke fast and sharp in Apache. The crowd stirred.
Chief Nal-Nish raised a hand for silence. "He believes mercy makes us weak," the chief said quietly. "That enemies will see this as softness."
"What do you believe?" Ezra asked.
Before the chief could answer, Takakota turned toward Ezra. "You bring danger," he said in broken English. "Better you die now. No trail, no talk."
Ayana stepped forward. Her voice rose, fast and pleading. She pointed to Ezra, to the scars on his hands. She said something about the photo on the table—the photo of Ezra's wife.
Takakota listened. His jaw worked. Then he stepped back. He looked Ezra over: slow, careful. His voice was flat. "She says you worked, not take. She says you know loss."