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the morning—just like your papa. The two of you could—”
    “There’s a man,” she blurted out. “I found him last night in the snow. You remember the dogs barking?”
    “When I called down, you told me you were all right.”
    “It was nothing. This fellow was lying out by the cabin. Wounded. But now I know he’s a desperado, Old Longbones. He’s wanted in three states. I have to get to the sheriff.”
    “A desperado? He told you this?”
    “I read about him this morning in the Silver City newspaper I brought with me. He’s a train robber.”
    The Indian let out a long, low whistle. Fara knew he wouldn’t be too troubled by a man who robbed trains—those long black snakes, he called them. Apaches rarely spoke of snakes, creatures they feared and hated. When they mentioned the reptiles, they used only mystical terms, as though serpents were unfathomable spirits from another world. In Old Longbones’s mind, trains fell into the same category.
    “He’s a horse rustler, too,” Fara said. She knew that to an Apache, horse thievery was a different matter altogether from train robbery. Rustling was an offense that deserved the most severe punishment.
    “What man did he steal horses from?” Old Longbones asked.
    “I don’t know. But I do know he hunted down and shot a prominent citizen in Phoenix. The poor gentleman is near death at this very minute.”
    “Filly, are you sure this desperado in the newspaper is the same man you found in the snow last night?”
    “Absolutely. It’s Hyatt, all right. I dragged him into Papa’s cabin. He’s lying down there half-frozen and sick to death with a putrefied gunshot wound.”
    “Putrefied?” Old Longbones looked up from the skillet. “Is it infection—or gangrene? I had better check him.”
    “But you don’t understand. He’s a terrible man. He might harm you.”
    “Filly.” The Apache gave her a long look. “Once I was the enemy of your people. My friends and I raided the White Eyes’ towns and attacked your settlements. Like that desperado in your papa’s cabin, we stole guns and horses. Sometimes, Filly, we killed. But in my time of greatest need—when I lay wounded, abandoned by my friends, and near death—Jacob Canaday took me in.”
    “I know the story, Longbones. But this is very different.”
    “It was not easy for your papa to do this thing.” The old Apache went on speaking as if he hadn’t heard her. “The White Eyes of Pinos Altos were very unhappy with Jacob Canaday. It was a great risk. For all he knew, when I came back to health, I might kill him . . . and his little golden-haired daughter. But Jacob Canaday always followed the teachings of that Book.”
    He pointed to the well-worn Bible on the mantel. “In the Bible there is a command we Apaches have never understood,” he said. “‘Love your enemies.’ That is not our way. To us it seems foolishness and weakness. But Jacob Canaday showed me the great strength of those who can follow that command. Jacob taught me about God’s love by loving me enough to take such a risk. Because of the love of Jacob Canaday and his God, I learned to accept the White Eyes as my brother. And I learned to love the Son of God as my savior—the One who freed me from the consequence of my many wrongs. Now tell me, Filly, shall we let that desperado with his putrefied wound go to his death? Or shall we love our enemy?”
    Fara averted her eyes. She had been brought up reading the Bible while nestled in her papa’s lap. Many times his gentle voice had spoken that command: “Love your enemies.” She had always believed it—in the abstract. It had come to mean tolerating her nosy neighbors or inviting the owner of the competing brickworks to her Fourth of July picnic. But to really put herself out for someone else? someone who might harm her?
    “Old Longbones,” she said softly, “I hear your wise words. But if this Hyatt fellow were to hurt you—”
    “He told you his name was Hyatt?”