by Joyce Armor
And then she saw him. The sight was so unexpected that at first she couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. It was a little boy. An Indian boy wearing dark woolen leggings and beaded moccasins. He was shirtless but wore several necklaces of beads that covered his chest. His hair was braided though short on top and kind of sticking up. He looked to be eight or nine. And he looked sick. His dark skin was sweating, his black eyes glassy. But even glassy, they appeared rather fierce. And then she remembered she was pointing a gun at him. She lowered it.
“I won’t hurt you,” she said softly.
He just stared. Most likely he didn’t understand English, although surely he could tell by the tone of her voice that she meant no harm. She reached out for him, and he awkwardly scrambled back to the far corner of the stall. Fortunately, it was empty, save for the young brave.
“Are you hungry?” With her hand, she motioned eating.
Still he just stared.
“I’ll bring you some stew,” she smiled, hoping to ease his mind.
Slowly she backed up out of the stall. She had just turned to head toward the door when she heard a thump. She turned around. Apparently the boy had tried to stand and collapsed. She rushed to him and felt his forehead. He was unconscious and burning up. Quickly she uncocked her pistol and placed it in her pocket, then swept the boy into her arms.
Per opened the barn door farther with her foot and was just coming out with her burden when she heard a horse approaching. Dang. What next? She couldn’t just drop the boy on the ground and tried to hold him with one hand while she struggled to reach her pistol. Just as she pulled it out, Bridget rode up, suddenly yanking on her reins.
“Well, you’re full of surprises,” Bridget said.
“He’s sick, burning up.” She started toward the ranch house.
Bridget dismounted. “It might be contagious. You better put him in our cabin.”
Per hesitated.
“Think of Henry.”
Per nodded and started off toward the cabin.
“I’ll quickly rub down Calliope and be there with my medical bag in a few minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bridget had removed his leggings and examined the boy thoroughly. She quickly realized the problem. He had a wound on his leg that looked like it may have been caused by a stick or a rock. It was jagged and not all that big, but it was virulently infected, red, puffy and oozing pus. Per brought Henry over in his cradle and began preparing willow bark tea as Bridget built up the fire and held her knife over the flame. Per held the boy’s leg as Bridget made a small cut in the wound to release the pus.
After carefully washing the wound and pouring whiskey on it, which caused the boy to moan but not awaken, she covered it with a poultice of plantain, a drawing agent, and loosely bandaged the leg. After that, she wiped him down with a cool cloth and tried to get as much willow bark tea into him as she could.
“Where’d you find him?”
“He was in the barn.
“The stew is ready. Shall I bring it here?”
Bridget looked at her patient. “I think he’ll be all right. Let’s eat at the house, and then I’ll come check on him.”
“Henry and I can sit with him when you go back.”
Bridget nodded.
“Be careful, though. He’s young but he was rather ferocious before he collapsed.”
When Bridget returned to the campsite and told the men about the Indian boy, Gus became concerned. He lasted all of 10 minutes before he decided to ride back to the ranch house. The others understood.
“I left the jar of poultice by the bedside. Add some more to the wound when you get there and see if you can get some willow bark tea down his gullet.”
He nodded and rode off. The ranch hands were night herding, making sure Hobie Pike didn’t make off with any more cattle. That left Bridget and Karl alone. Just looking at him across the fire, she could feel the heat sizzling between them.
“It’s too dangerous!” she blurted out, and he burst out laughing.
“I know we have to stay alert,” he said, “but I can dream.”
It was fully dark now, and they fixed their bedrolls to look like they were sleeping and crept off into the brush.
* * *
Gus looked at the boy’s leggings draped across the chair and at his beads and hair. “He’s Nez Perce. His people will be searching for him. They won’t be happy he’s injured.”
“We can’t just turn him out. He could die.”
He sighed, rubbing his hand across his mouth. “I know. But Lord, we have enough troubles as it is without worrying about an Indian attack. You know they’ve been raiding and killing settlers on the Salmon River.”
Henry began fussing and Per picked him up and bounced him as she held him. “That’s Idaho Territory.”
Gus unwrapped the bandaging from the Indian boy’s leg and began rubbing the poultice on his wound. “Yes. That’s why I haven’t been too worried about any Indian problems here. But if this boy is here, you can bet others are somewhere nearby. Might be we should go to Vale until the soldiers have things in hand.”
Per had set her son on the rug and was changing his diaper. “Whatever you think is best, Gus, but you know if we leave the horses and cattle, if Indians comes, all the animals will be gone when we return.”
She was right. They would be ruined. He re-bandaged the boy’s leg as he thought. “I’d like you to take Henry and Bridget to town.”
She started to protest, and his held his hand up. “As I started to say, I’d like it if you, your sister and Henry would wait this out in town, but I know you won’t go because you cousins are the most stubborn women in Oregon Territory.”
“I’m glad you realize that. So we have to play this smart.” She lifted Henry up and carried the wet diaper out the front door, where she set it on the porch. Back inside, she looked thoughtful. “We have to think this through carefully.”
“Let’s get every single weapon we own, make sure all the firearms are loaded and the knives sharpened.”
“We need to call off the trap for Pike and get everybody back here.”
“It’s too dark now. I’ll ride out at dawn and bring them in.”
He did that, and they moved the herd to the lower pasture, much closer to the ranch. After taking care of the horses, Karl and Bridget checked on the boy. His fever was still pretty high, and his leg was still swollen and red, although Bridget said it was less “angry” than it had been. The sooner he was healed, the better. Bridget didn’t know if they could just send him on his way. That didn’t seem right, although she knew an eight- or nine-year-old Indian boy was much more mature and capable than his white counterpart. She was afraid when he awoke he would bolt, regardless of his condition, so she thought about what could interest him enough to stay.
She placed the horse Karl had carved on the nightstand next to the bed and went off to the ranch house to find any toys of Henry’s that might hold the boy’s interest. And then she thought of the perfect one. It was a colorful clown that nodded and danced when a crank was turned. Per had purchased it through a catalog with money she had brought from her former life. If the boy could be amused, perhaps they could keep him until at least he healed. It shouldn’t be more than a few days.
If they could all stay alive until then.
Chapter 7
Each night one of the family members or ranch hands kept watch while the others slept. It was a tense time, waiting for danger to approach on two different fronts. Gus couldn’t imagine what was taking the Indians so long to find their missing boy. They were expert trackers and should have located him by now. Had the boy run away and purposely left no sign or misled them? That’s the only reason he could think of that they hadn’t tracked him down yet. It was a Godsend in one way, at least, since it allowed time for the young brave to come to his senses and heal. And now it was time for Gus to parlay with him.
Two days had gone by since Per had stumbled upon the boy in the barn. The
others were astounded that Gus was able to communicate with the child in his language. Henry’s toys delighted the boy, and he had lost the hostility in his eyes, although he was still a bit wary of the white people.
“Kuus?” Gus asked, picking up the water pitcher.
The boy, whose name was Sahkanteic, which Gus said meant White Eagle, shook his head.
“Siis?”
At that, the youngster nodded, and Gus handed him a bowl of venison stew. When he finished eating, White Eagle handed Gus the dish.
“Tóhon?”
Gus pointed. “Koná.”
“What was that about?” Bridget asked as she checked the boy’s wound.
“He wanted to know where his pants are.”
Bridget laughed.
As near as Gus could figure out, as he was not exactly fluent in the Nez Perce language but could get by, the boy had sneaked out of his camp to kill a bear. Apparently he had been teased about his small stature—he was 10 years old—and set out to prove something. He had taken a fall into a ravine, lost his bow and arrows and injured his leg. He was too humiliated to go back to his tribe so determined to live on his own. Gus suspected he began rethinking that plan when he started to feel sick.
Bridget put a smaller bandage on White Eagle’s wound and covered him back up with the blanket. “He’s healing fine, and the fever is gone. There’s really no reason to keep him in bed any longer.”
“I thought someone would come after him by now.”
“Can we just let him go? He’s so young.”
“We might have to.”
“Tóhon,” the boy said with conviction.
Gus sighed, wondering if he understood any English. He retrieved White Eagle’s leggings and handed them to him. The little brave gave Bridget a lethal stare and she turned her back to give him privacy, stifling a laugh. Men and boys are the same everywhere. It was a revelation. Back east, most everyone thought of Indians as savages, but if this boy was any indication, they were just people, with the same foibles and hurts and edge of nobility as anyone else.
Per had taken Henry to Vale with Jeff as a guard, and Marty and Karl were out with the cattle. Bridget picked up her medical bag and started to leave. She glanced over her shoulder at Gus. “Maybe you can get him to help out in the barn today, just to keep him occupied a little longer until we can figure out something.”
“I’ll try.”
Bridget’s mind was filled with thoughts of her husband and the ways she would make him sigh and groan tonight, and maybe even growl. Just with that mental picture, her nipples hardened and she had to concentrate not to succumb to her erotic visions. Switching to the need to gather more herbs and which ones were priorities, she opened the cabin door and nearly shrieked. Three Indians were standing there. Three ferocious-looking Indians. One was dressed in fringed pants with a long belted shirt and the other two wore breechcloths over leather leggings.
The fiercest-looking one wore a boned breastwork and had beads in his braided hair, which stood up in a puffy way on top of his head. Another had a big feather sticking out of his hair and wore shiny silver earrings. The third man was adorned with rows of beads and a beaded choker. And he wore a bracelet and several rings, too. He also sported long braids and poufy hair on top. Bridget had a silly thought, considering the circumstances, that his jewelry would go over big back east.
All that registered in her mind in an instant. What she noticed in the second instant was their dark skin, high cheekbones and intense look. These were hardened men. Two held spears, and one had an arrow nocked in his bow.
She was afraid to move. “Uh, Gus?”
“Yeah?”
“Um…could you come here please? And bring your g-u-n.”
She didn’t know why the Indians weren’t killing her. She knew other settlers hadn’t been so lucky. Which didn’t mean they weren’t going to kill her. At that moment she felt such an all-encompassing love for Karl it almost brought tears to her eyes. The Lord is with me. Those two thoughts brought a wondrous feeling of comfort, and she lost most of her anxiety. Then Gus appeared at her side, gun in hand, and the Indians stiffened, immediately alerted.
They conversed in short guttural tones and a few hand signs, and then White Eagle walked out and stood between Gus and Bridget. One of the Indians smiled and grunted, and Bridget guessed he was the boy’s father or maybe his uncle. As they talked with the young brave, Bridget had a thought and went back into the cabin. The Indians tensed as if she would emerge with a shotgun, but she brought out the little mechanical clown and handed it to White Eagle, who beamed. Then he took off one of his beaded necklaces and handed it to her. She had never been more touched.
With that the boy’s relative nodded and the Indians left with their rescued member. Inexplicably, Bridget felt a tear falling down her cheek and Gus hugged her.
“He’s going back where he belongs.”
“I know. I think it’s a good thing you could communicate with them. This might not have turned out as well as it did.”
“I know. There’s trouble brewing with the Nez Perce and the Army. I don’t think it will end well for the Indians, but a lot of settlers could pay the price before it’s all said and done.”
“Well, hopefully they won’t forget our treatment of White Eagle.”
He smiled. “Yes, you’re like having a doctor in the family.”
She grinned. “I’m going to wash the dishes and then take Buddy and gather some herbs.”
“Don’t wander too far. And don’t go off the main trail more than about a quarter of a mile or you might set off one of my traps. And keep an eye out for Pike.”
“Yes, Mother.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to check on Karl and Marty and then work in the barn.”
* * *
Hobie Pike’s shoulder still bothered him, and every time he felt so much as a twinge in it he seethed. He was already planning to avenge his brother’s death, but the injury fueled his fury. His brother was a worthless piece of dung, but he was blood, and you avenged blood. He’d tried to bushwhack the girl in town. Dumb luck saved her. And he miscalculated the threat in the stable. Who knew the slut would be armed when she wasn’t dressed like a man? He debated on hiring some men and just attacking the homestead, but he figured killing a person or two wouldn’t cause a big stink, but murdering a whole family might bring him more problems than he wanted.
He had scouted out their property and was weighing his options. He could burn them out, poison their cattle, dam their creek. What he would like to do is take their women, use them as they screamed for mercy and then use them some more before killing them. Better than that, he would like Gus Burgen to watch as he abused them. Yes, that would do nicely. How to go about it, though? He wouldn’t underestimate the brothers. They were formidable. He would need help.
The outlaw left his campsite deep in the forest and headed toward Vale. From there he would take the road south to Jordan Valley. He was pretty certain several of his former gang members were still there panning for gold. The last time he was in Jordan Valley, the place was crawling with less than reputable men. Some lowly women, too. He chuckled to himself. He was sure he could scare up some men willing to take on the Burgen Brothers. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that total annihilation was the way to go after all. Or at least enough destruction until the survivors were ready to surrender. And then he would do his worst. He just needed to gather enough men to blast them to hell. They killed Georgie and he would wipe them from the face of the earth.
* * *
It was almost three weeks since the Indians had retrieved White Eagle, and it was difficult to keep up everyone’s guard. At least the Indian threat seemed to be gone. That left Hobie Pike. They had long since given up the fake campsite trick after trying for a week with no success. That left constantly watching their backs and never wandering off alone. Bridget in particular felt an unrest, as if her world was about to collapse. It could not hav
e come at a worse time, as she was all but certain she was with child.
Her stomach was unsettled in the mornings, but she was not exactly nauseous. Still, her breasts seemed overly sensitive and she just had that feeling that something was different. Besides, she hadn’t had her monthly in two months. She already would have been ferociously protective of Karl and the others, but now she felt positively warrior-like. Hobie Pike was in for a vicious battle if he thought he would harm anyone she loved, including her unborn child.
Bridget and Karl had just finished a rather vigorous lovemaking session when she turned to him, putting her hand over his heart. It was still beating rather rapidly.
“That was good,” she said.
He put his hand over hers. “Just good?”
“Yes, in a fabulous sort of way.”
“That’s better.” He nuzzled her neck. “What are you planning to do today?”
She smiled. “Oh, I thought I might knit some baby booties.”
“Why would you…” He sat up abruptly.
“Are you saying…are we?”
She grinned. “We are.”
He pulled her into his arms and squeezed, completely overwhelmed with…what? Happiness, thankfulness, bone-deep contentment. “Mrs. Burgen, you’ve made me a very happy man.”
“I aim to please, Mr. Burgen.”
Then he sat up abruptly. “Should we be…I mean, are you okay to…?”
She patted his hand. “Never fear, my love. Conjoining is natural and safe throughout most of pregnancy. It’s even all right at the end, except logistically it gets difficult.”
He smiled. “Conjoining? How do you know these things?”
“I’m a healer, remember? And my mother had five children after me. We lived in a fairly small house. One does hear things.”
He cringed. “Well, I wonder what I’ll be thinking when I meet your parents.”