He opened the ranch door and his heart almost stopped. Hundreds of Apache horsemen surrounded his land. Their spears gleamed in the sun. Their faces were hard, implacable. The dust on the ground was so thick it resembled a storm. Itan raised his hands. He knew he was finished. In the center of the group, a huge figure with a fierce gaze and red paint on his face. He watched him with hatred. His chest was covered in scars. It was clear he was a chief. “I didn’t do anything,” Ehan shouted.
“I haven’t harmed anyone.” The chief raised his spear. A whistle echoed through the air. The warriors drew back their bows, and then a female voice rang out loudly, unmistakably, “Stop!” From behind the group, the girl appeared riding a black horse. She wore a leather dress and her hair was braided. Her eyes were full of tears. All the warriors stood apart at the sight of her. The chief lowered his spear in surprise. She dismounted, ran towards Itan, and knelt before him.
He put a hand on his hair and on his heart. The water has become difficult. Aqua , vita. Itan looked at her without fully understanding, but moved. The Apache chief does access slowly. This man helped you, he asked in his language. She nodded. The silence is eternal and the boss is silent. Road to Itan. For a moment I thought he would kill her, but then he would stretch out his hand. You are a friend of the Chirikawas, he said in rough English ma chiaro.
There will be no war today. Itan trembled. He shook the wordless chief’s hand. The warriors lowered their weapons. Some even heard the sounds. The little girl raised her eyes to the sky and the wind blew softly, more than ever. The story that the desert has not forgotten. During the following days, the Apaches camped near the ranch. Ihan shared bread, corn, and water with them. At night, the girl, whose name was Nayeli, she who sees beyond, sat by the fire and listened to the old man’s stories.
Non capivo tutte le parole, ma comprehensiono and sentimenti. Ihan taught her how to take care of horses and she showed him how to follow the tracks in the sand. Two worlds that once hated each other, now shared a cup of coffee at dawn. And even though none of us have said it, we also learned that the incontro was not accidental. Un giorno il boss si ritirò. We’re going north, he said. My sarai always ben fornito in our land. Gli left a fatto amulet with colore and piume affinché lo spirito lo riconosca.
Explicato. Lo accettò con rispetto e quando vio alejarse Anayeli entrò nella polvere, sentí che qualcosa dentro di lui cambiò. Per la prima volta, per molti anni, ho creduto che il bene oggi potesse venire al miele. El tiempo pasa, los años transforma el desierto, el ferrocarril llegado, los pueblos crece y la frontera se llenado de hombres nuevos con sueños y armas. Ihan envejecido solo en su rancho, ma cada tarde, al mirada el Horizoné, recordaré a la niña gigante y su sonrisa silencio.
One night, when the sky was ablaze with fire from a distant blaze, he heard hooves approaching. He thought they were bandits. He took his rifle, but upon opening the door he saw something that made him drop the weapon. In front of him stood a huge woman with black braids and a feather necklace. Her eyes, the same as that day, shone with emotion. It was Yelis, an old friend. He said in a firm voice, “We came to help you.” More than 20 Apaches were carrying water and medicine.
The fire spread rapidly through the valley, but they formed a human line that passed through the caves without interruption. All night they fought together against the flames. When dawn arrived, the ranch was still standing. Ihan collapsed into a chair. Nayeli looked at him tenderly. “My father died years ago,” she told him.
Ma prima di irse mi disse: “Never forget the man who gave water when everyone else gave bullets.” Ihan closed his eyes. Tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks. “I only did what I had to do,” he whispered. She smiled. “And that’s why the spirits love you. The legacy of water.” Itan died a spring later, peaceful in the shade of his old well. At his grave, the Apaches erected a stone with an inscription in their language.
The man who gave life. Decades later, the Apache’s grandchildren still told his story. They said that on moonless nights, an old figure walked by the well watching over the water, and that when someone drank respectfully, the wind whispered his name, Izan. And every time a storm brought rain to the desert, Nayeli looked to the sky and murmured a prayer in her language: May the water that saved my life continue to flow in the hearts of good men.
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