- You lived with the Apache?
- Five years.

- And you had an Indian wife?
- Wife, squaw...

I took the liberty of borrowing a few feet
of rope off of that coil in the lean-to.

- Gladly pay you for it, if you let me.
- 'Course not.

The hills are so beautiful today.
Odd how clear they always are
after a dust storm.

Must have been very interesting
living with the Apache.

I liked it.
- This Indian wife you have...
- Had. She's dead.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up
an unhappy memory.

I can't remember anything unhappy
about Destarte.

Destarte? How musical. What does it mean?
You can't say it except in Mescalero.
It means morning.

But that isn't what it means, either.
Means more than just that.
Indian words mean the sound and...

feel of a word, like...
crack of dawn, the first bronze light...
that makes the buttes stand out
against the gray desert.

The first sound you hear of a brook...
curling over some rocks, with trout jumping.
It's like when you get up in the first light...
just you and her and you go out of
a wickiup.

Where it smells kind of smoky and private,
just you and her, and...

kind of safe with just the two of you.
Stand outside and...
feel the bite of the first wind
coming down from the high divide...

that promises snowfall.
Can't say it in English,
but that was her name.

- You remind me of her some.
- Of an Indian girl?

Was she fair?