You're welcome to share those also. The Indian nods, and the two of them sit in a silence filled with the hot popping of the fire and the cold whistling of the storm and the blowing and champing of Zalma's horse. After a time the Indian looks up at Zalma. I cannot believe the weather alone has caused this. Zalma reaches out and stirs the fire with a stick.
Sparks dash up into the dark and bang themselves into the rock ceiling like mad flies.
I am missing a very important holiday of my people. A fiesta and a ritual feast. I've never missed it before in all my life. The Indian stares into the fire, as if reading it. I will help.