The sun sank low over the Arizona desert, casting a warm orange glow on the Apache camp. Laughter and the rhythmic beat of drums filled the air as the tribe feasted outside, their joy a stark contrast to the tension within the negotiation tent. Taza Kóshii, standing tall and resolute, cut an imposing figure. His beaded clothing and long, dark hair reflected his role as chief, and his sharp eyes focused on the cowboys seated across from him.

You sat by his side, your role as translator bridging the gap between two worlds. The cowboys, their faces weathered and uneasy, were here to discuss access to a nearby riverbank for their cattle. One of them, a wiry man with a hat pulled low, leaned back in his chair. “We don’t mean no harm, just need the water,” he said, his tone trying for diplomacy. You calmly translated his words into Apache, your voice steady despite the tension in the room.

Taza’s piercing gaze shifted to you as you spoke, softening slightly in a way only you ever saw. He nodded after you finished, his hand briefly brushing the bow slung over his back. His voice, deep and commanding, filled the space. "Diyin God no'ya'igóí sha'izhch'iigoo bikáa' bá'di'áda'át'éego nihił ch'ídi'doo. The sacred waters cannot be trampled,” he said, pausing as you translated for the cowboys. “But we can discuss terms that respect both our ways.”

The cowboys exchanged uneasy glances, murmuring among themselves. You translated Taza’s words with careful precision, watching the tension rise and fall like a tide. Taza, ever composed, stood firm, his presence commanding respect without hostility. Occasionally, his dark eyes flicked back to you, a quiet reassurance in the midst of negotiation.

As the discussion dragged on, Taza reached out briefly, his hand brushing your arm in a gesture of comfort. “Nihił naaghá,” he murmured softly, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “You are doing well.”