He's alive, by some miracle, doesn't thoroughly believe in them, but he can't argue with being able to open his eyes, hear the popping close to him. He breathes, swallows, is thankful that the bullets to his gut, didn't finish him. More scars to add to the corporeal tally, he thinks, mumbling to himself. Then he sighs, hearing the boastful wind howl outside beyond these aboriginal confines. He turns his head to squint at the fire crackling as it burns mere inches from him in the center of this native home. The air all around smells pungent, like moldering grapes and the scent of fear he's often smelt. He's no stranger to these dwellings, has been in one, has even slept in one before. He wonders what he's doing in one again now. For as many times, the thought hammers, he isn't dead, could have died, left for dead. He has cheated the Grim Reaper yet another time. That wind out there carries such a mournful sound. A constant reminder that being at the mercy of the elements and chance is his reality. The last memory he has is of being bushwhacked, a little ways out from Central City in Cheyenne country, where hilly terrain gradually gives way to sky-scraping mountains.

This tipi and the sounds beyond it tell him he is among them. For how long? They kept him alive? Well, it wouldn't be the first time the natives in these parts did him a good turn. He wonders if he knows this band responsible for keeping him alive.

What a sad state of affairs. The last time he'd been blindsided, he had come off without a scratch. That is a far cry from what's happened this time. Bushwhacked lived up to its name, he thinks, grimacing, then needing to pause when his wounds speak up. It's his world of hurt and he needs a long moment to battle the sharp pain piercing the lower left side of his tender belly. He concentrates to alter his focus, which reroutes what he feels. One moment he'd been patting the side of his faithful quarter horse, Ringo's neck, and a second later, guns had blazed and bullets had whizzed as they'd flown like a swarm of angry bees. Two had found their marks, but miraculously, had gone clean through as he got knocked off Ringo's back on impact. His horse had run off and he'd passed out after crawling through dust and gravel until he'd reached a propitious outcropping.

"Never even saw one man," he says, which comes out hoarsely. "What were they up to? Had a hankering for target practice, then I happened along and I got to be the coyote?"

Josh, forcing himself to breathe more evenly, wonders if he'll ever see his four-legged loyal companion again. As if on cue, the canny animal's nicker reaches his ears and beneath these smothering layers of furry hides he sighs another sigh of relief. It's so warm, maybe a little too warm. Beaded sweat stands on his forehead, a drop or two on either side of his face drip down. As the howling gusts threaten to rip this firmly-secured nomadic resting place from the ground, he makes a deal with himself. Wheeling and dealing is nothing new. He's built his life around the constant tug of give and take.

He feels for his shortened rifle, the Mare's Leg. His probing is done gingerly, and not locating the weapon in its usual place frustrates him. When he's minus his rifle, it's as if a hand is missing. He's never had to replace his special firearm, but there's always a first time. This might be it, unless, and he really hopes so, his caretakers retrieved it and have no intention of keeping it for themselves. He thinks it's a good idea to stage a search for the Winchester, starting with the immediate area.

The deal is: He'll get to his feet, find his firearm and head out.

"Sit up, not too fast mind you, and if that isn't too much, try standing," he tells himself; doesn't believe it's too much to ask. He's lost all track of time, doesn't know how long he's been here as he lay, out cold. He gives his intention a try, only to find that what felt like a good idea is anything but. He can hardly raise up on his crooked elbows let alone lift himself up enough to hunker. So, he let's the matter of his getting up to walk out of here sit. Ringo nickers, louder this time, and Josh feels powerless to answer his call. He wonders if the horse is thirsty; he hopes not as thirsty as he is. Smacking lips that feel cracked, he hopes for water. "So...thirsty." He closes his bloodshot eyes, willing the desire to quench his thirst away. Easier said than make happen.

But, it does, not because he can work magic in the surreal sense. His desire becomes reality in the form of a shapely native maiden with skin the color of cinnamon, pulling the tipi flap aside to enter with what he thirsts for. Fresh, cool water from the nearby stream, which she bears in the waterskin she carries. Shafts of warm, bright sunshine accompany her, bathing the interior of the tipi in resplendent light, as she smiles sweetly at him.

His eyes pop, and hers, identical in color to her hair, never leave his face that broadcasts his surprise. Though not at his best, he's determined to make the effort. He's a gentleman, and a lady is a lady, whether she be as white as he is, or any gradation of pigmentation under the sun. His view of non-white folks conflicts with popular notions on the subject. That is no concern of his. Anyone who knows Josh Randall is all too aware that no one in their right mind tells him how he must think or act. Those who had ever tried had received a good lesson in the wisdom of backing off.

One of many of his rules of thumb is a person can no sooner help what he or she'd been born than convince gold-hungry prospectors to trade their genuine treasure for a lode of pyrite. In these parts, Fool's Gold was all too plentiful, tricking many a gullible soul.

Graceful as a doe, the petite young woman inches nearer to him, the ends of her sleek, long hair, the color of ravens, brush her waist. Josh makes what he wants known through gestures, wincing through each one he makes. She's thinking over whether she'll be safe if she get closer, he can tell. It's up to him to convince her he's harmless. He's that, regardless of his present state of sad health. He would never think of hurting someone who looks as pretty and as fragile as she, unless she were holding a knife to his throat.

Softer than a gentle wind, he encourages, "Think I could have some of that?" He jabs his chin at the waterskin, then reminds himself how improbable it is she understands. "Speak?" Dollface gives him the biggest, roundest eyes he's ever seen, training them on him until she doesn't seem real anymore. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just need water." He smiles, not to beguile, but to appease. He's unique, not the typical four flushing paleface, who lives up to the reputation of habitually speaking with a snakelike tongue.

He supposes he made himself understandable enough. His reticent visitor is at his side, kneeling, apparently better at ease. She offers Josh the waterskin and when she sees he's having trouble bringing the unstoppered carrier of liquids to his lips, she obliges, holding the container just so. Her assistance really helps, making his attempt to drink that much easier. The water is so good, with a hint of peppermint flavor. He guzzles and guzzles until the velvety waterskin is nearly drained. Water spills from the corner of his mouth. "Thanks," he offers with gratitude and a muffled burp, drying his lips with the back of a hand, then does a better job of it by wiping his mouth dry against the crook of his inner elbow skin. He makes a few guesses about what has become of his shirt marred by bullet holes. He adjusts himself, ignoring the discomfort caused by deliberate movement.

My, my, my...

His sight for sore eyes is burning holes in him, and then, as if she's been holding her breath all this time, along with giving the impression she was a mute, the maiden finally releases, "Mo-re?"

Josh passes his wince off as a grin. "Holding out on me, eh?"

She repeats that first word he's ever heard her speak, this time more confidently while proffering the waterskin. "More?" Then she remembers it's all but empty, and rises quickly from his side.

He gets the feeling that if he says too much, she'll leap away like a skittish doe. She looks the right deer, in both senses of the homonym. He takes that chance, which he deems is worth taking. How much English does she know? "So, you speak."

And she also feels it's her duty to see that her father's badly-injured guest is well-taken care of. This very white pale man, with eyes as blue as mountain lakes, is her responsibility. Her father, the Chief, must save face, which is her responsibility too. She rushes the words, but they come out coherently enough. "I get more. You drink much. I go."

Quick to put a stop to her impromptu departure, Josh raises the hand that had grazed hers as she'd held the waterskin for him. The brief, unexpected contact sparked something in him, something he couldn't have predicted. He needs answers, but having her near is a comfort in his weakened condition. He's a solitary man, who travels lonely paths, experiencing a vulnerability he's never felt before. Whom did he have to get him through times like this? A sawbones to patch him up and tell him he needed to change his line of work? A sheriff in some backwater town to hand over bounty money he'd risked his life to earn? A saloon girl in still another of those many little towns he might call on for a spell, then ride off into the prairie in pursuit of yet another dangerous fugitive from justice? He knows folks, but they know him as a man with no roots, who merely passes through. "Don't go. No. Stay. Stay." Before rushing out of the tipi, the maiden holds off and Josh quickly exhales with a jerky quirk of his index finger for reeling her back in, "That's right. Talk. We talk more." When she kneels at his side again, he extends the same finger to twirl a silky wisp of black hair about his finger. "What's your name?" he gently asks.

"Name..."

"Yeah. Your name." He went first. "I'm Josh." The other finger of his other hand points squarely to the middle of his bare chest. "You?" Now he points at her.

As though he sees her cerebral wheels turning, the maiden sounds out the word 'name' again, then erupts, "My name."

"That's right, honey," Josh cajoles, snagging a bit more of her lustrous locks between calloused fingers. "Your name."

Her lips form the syllables as her pert little nose twitches. Her painstaking effort gives birth to, "Way-no-ka. My name."

Softly, Josh drawls, "Pleased to meet ya, Waynoka." The saucy look in his eyes precedes his wink. "I once had a rifle, about yea big." It smarted when he illustrated, but he ignored what hurt like he'd been struck by white lightning. "Have you seen it?"