Chato pointed to a faint ridge of disturbed sand. “See that line? Horse hooves. Deep. They carried weight.”
“I wouldn’t have noticed that,” Blaze said.
“You will,” Chato replied. “If you live long enough.”
“He’s got spirit, at least,” Marisol said, grinning.
Blaze shot her a sidelong look. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing?”
“Not bad,” she said. “Just dangerous. Spirit gets you killed if you don’t have skill to match it.”
“I’m learning,” Blaze said.
“Hope you’re a quick learner,” Marisol muttered.
They rode on for hours. After a while, Blaze began to feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. Though he knew he wouldn’t have been able to sleep.
Chato rode a few paces ahead, his dark hair hanging down his back. The man moved like he belonged to the land. Never wasted a motion, never seemed to tire.
At last, the Indian glanced over his shoulder.
“We stop soon,” he said. “Horses need rest. So do you.”
“I can ride a little farther,” Blaze answered, though his voice sounded rough.
Chato slowed his horse anyway. “You can. But if you fall out of the saddle, it’s a long walk back.”
Blaze looked ahead at the low rise of scrub and stone. He felt hollow, worn thin, but part of him didn’t want to stop. Not when his mother’s face still burned behind his eyes.
Still, Chato was right. The horses needed water, and his legs felt like wood.
“Over there,” Chato said, pointing toward a cluster of rocks. “We’ll camp in the hollow. Fire won’t be seen from the ridge.”
“Can’t promise I’ll sleep,” Blaze muttered.
“You don’t have to,” Chato replied. “Just breathe awhile.”
Blaze didn’t answer, but the words stuck with him as they turned off the trail toward the hollow.
When they made camp that night, Chato built a small fire, using dry sage so the smoke wouldn’t carry. Blaze sat across from him, watching the man work.
“You always this quiet?” Blaze asked.
Chato didn’t look up. “Words don’t change the trail.”
“Maybe not,” Blaze said, “but they pass the time.”
Chato glanced at him then, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You talk like a preacher’s son.”
“Rancher’s,” Blaze said. “Big difference.”
Marisol laughed softly from where she sat cleaning her rifle. “Not that big.”
“Guess you’d know, huh?”
She gave him a look that could’ve cut glass. “Careful.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Truce.”
