by Rita Karnopp
"Dirk, did you hear about the General's daughter?" Matt asked, his voice rising with excitement. "She was gone a whole day. They say that hero, the one with the white feathers, brought her back to the fort. Brother Lanaghan says the girl doesn't remember a thing that happened."
Dirk struggled to keep his face void of expression. "You don't say. I did hear about it. Strange how this man can disappear into thin air when he wants. Must be some kind of magic."
"Thee talks nonsense, Dirk. The only magic is to apply thyself to that Light of Christ, which shineth in thy conscience. One day this hero willeth be found out. The way thee helps folks, thyself believes thee is with God, for not to serve sin is the only freedom."
Dirk opened his eyes wider, hoping for an expression of innocence. "Well, I'm not as worried about this hero as I am about Giles Rutledge."
"Mathew, thee best be getting some sleep, son."
Mathew straightened, sighing loudly. "Yes, Father. How long are thee staying, Dirk?"
"I'm leaving first light," Dirk said, between hungry mouthfuls.
"I wish you were gonna be here longer. Was good to see you though. Next time thee comes, stay a spell," Matt said, sliding the wooden chair up to the table.
Dirk rose and clasped Matt in a brotherly hug. "You're doing a fine job here, Matt. I'm proud of you. Your sisters look mighty happy, too. You've been a good brother."
Matt's eyes clouded with emotion. He nodded toward Dirk, and then walked from the room. Pausing at the doorway, he turned, and added, "Goodnight, Mother. Father. Be seeing thee soon, Dirk."
Beulah's soft throat clearing made Dirk chuckle inside. She tried to come across stern, but she always choked at any sentimentality.
"I'll leave thee two men to discuss what thy wish without a woman listening in," Beulah said, laying her sewing on her rocker. "Thee will find a bag of food on the table in the morning for thy return trip, Dirk. Next time thee must not leave so quickly. Thy family misses having thee around," she whispered, her tear-smothered voice wavered.
Dirk crossed the room and gave his mother a gentle bear hug. "Last time I did that, I stayed for four years." His voice came shakier than he'd like.
Beulah didn't answer. In spite of her size, she left the room without a sound.
"The Lord graciously put thee in thy path. Near death thee was too. Mother and thee hoped to be happy away from Philadelphia, but thee must be honest and admit to doubts. Everyone had been warned against taking part in non-Quaker activities and also against participation in political strife. Thee mother has had to pay for thy's desire to change the old ways."
"Father, you did what you thought best."
"Thee knew the Quaker headed in the direction of doom already in nineteen hundred fifty and seven, when the Philadelphia Meeting decided to have no correspondence with anyone, believing isolation might preserve a semblance of unity. Those followers became blind! How could a people grow and prosper when thee closed thy eyes to the truth around thyself?"
Dirk noticed his voice grew distant. "Perhaps we should retire for the night, Father. I didn't mean to upset you."
"Thee didn't think thy mother and thyself would be happy again," he continued as though Dirk hadn't spoken. "All those years barren of children, then the Lord giveth us thee. And thee blessed us with those poor orphans. Thee children giveth us such pleasures. A pity the Lord had to take thy poor parents at that watering hole. Sometimes thee feels guilty in rejoicing over thy tragedy, which neither can nor will change. Thee must deal plainly and faithfully with God."
"They needed you and you needed them. There should be no guilt in that, Father. God knows your heart speaks of pure intentions. Now, I insist we retire for the night. We both will be up early. I don't plan on saying any goodbyes." Dirk watched Lemuel's gentle, understanding expression.
"Nor thee, son."
Chapter Two
Trail Walker waited until Doctor Bentley left before he crept into the house and worked his way into Sarah's room. He stood above her, watching her chest rise and fall at a slow, even pace.
It had been nearing sunset when one of the boys told him Sarah hadn't returned from her morning ride. He'd been sick with worry. He had been all set to go out after her when the gates opened, Gypsy running in with her prize load.
Trail Walker noticed the feather on the night table and picked it up. He ran it through his wrinkled fingers, drawing in the familiar scent. A smile crept across his face. So, Sarah had been rescued by the white man's hero."
How could this hero be described as tall, dark, and young by some, then short and blond by others? Sometimes he couldn't understand the white man. One woman swore the man who rescued her had hair as white as the feather he'd tucked into her hands. They had a chameleon in their midst; the men feared him and the women fantasized about him. Trail Walker smiled again.
He made himself comfortable in a large, horsehair chair in the far corner of the room. He watched Sarah sleep, toying all the time with the eagle feather, remembering a time of peace and tranquility in his Blackfeet village. He could see his mother sitting on the ground with a group of women, sewing a large tipi covering spread out in front of them. Always enjoying themselves, gossiping, eating, and some even smoking while they worked.
Children ran happily about the camp, engrossed in mock war games or playing a trick on some poor mother, who would chase them away, then continue with her work.
He and his friends never tired of practicing the art of suspending themselves along the horse's flank, one leg hooked over the animal's back and an elbow resting in a sling that circled its neck, leaving their hands free for the bow and arrow. They had used their ponies as shields so they could discharge their arrows over the horse's backs or from beneath their necks.
"Gypsy!" Sarah called out in the night.
Trail Walker bounded from the chair as though he were a twenty-year-old buck.
"Shh, little one," he patted her shoulder.
Her breathing slowed and her face once again relaxed in sleep. Trail Walker laid the feather on the nightstand, and then returned to the chair, and his thoughts. Soon the sun would rise. He hoped the new day would answer the many questions he had for Sarah.
When sleep finally conquered him, Trail Walker didn't know. It must have been the aching of his old, tired body awakening him, or it could have been the footsteps he now heard echoing down the hall. Sarah's bedroom door creaked slightly open, then stopped. Trail Walker pulled himself upright. He couldn't see who stood behind the door, the odor of leather and boot paste narrowed it down to a cavalryman.
"Why on earth would you send Ruth to wake me up this time of morning? You know I hate not getting my sleep! Well, what in damnation do you want?"
"Lower your voice, Rachel! You may not care if anyone hears you ranting, but I find it embarrassing."
"By all means! We wouldn't want the great general to be embarrassed in front of his flock. What do you want, Henry? I'm tired and it's cold out here in the hall."
Trail Walker wanted to make his presence known, but he didn't know how to do so without revealing that he'd spent the night watching over Sarah. The General didn't frighten Trail Walker, but he wasn't sure how Sarah's father would react to an Indian being in his house all night.
"I want to know how Sarah managed to get out of the fort yesterday."
"How would I know that? She does what she wants to, and always has. If you told her not to go out riding, then you're the one who should watch and make sure she doesn't. Is that all you woke me for?"
"Rachel, for God's sake. I run this entire fort. I'm responsible for the lives of hundreds. I make sure there is peace among the Indians and ensure safety for the people who want and need my protection. Surely you can be responsible for one child!" His accusing voice stabbed the air.
"You haven't looked at her lately, Henry. She isn't a child any longer. All she wants to do is ride that damned horse. Usually she puts trousers on to go riding. Since she left the house in a dress, I didn'
t expect her to be out riding at all."
"Rachel, when was the last time you told me the truth?" The volume of his voice increased with each word.
Trail Walker shifted his weight uncomfortably. The door remained slightly ajar.
"I don't know what you're talking about.
Trail Walker noticed a slight tremble in her words.
"You don't? That's funny, because one of the men informed me you gave him orders to allow Sarah to ride whenever she liked. He also enlightened me that Sarah has been riding outside the fort for the past two months!"
"Henry, you're such a damn hypocrite. You can watch all those men, Indians, and travelers, but when do you find time to watch Sarah or me?"
"You're evading the issue here."
"Yes, Henry. I told Fennergan to let her go out riding, but only when he told me she had been sneaking out of the fort every day. At least this way we know when she goes out. Surely there is no harm in that."
"Harm! Just like there was no harm when you let Henry Junior and Sarah go walking off four years ago! You killed my son every bit as much as Sarah did. When we made plans to come out west I told you how it was going to be. Sarah is your responsibility. I have my duties!"
"And what about me? When was the last time you fulfilled your duty to me, Henry?"
"Why do you need me, sweet Rachel? I'm sure by now you have a new young man groveling at your bed!"
A loud slap cracked through the air. Trail Walker flinched. He could imagine the fury on the General's face.
"Does the truth hurt, love? Don't worry, I won't be around to see who he is, nor do I care. I want you to listen to me this one time, Rachel. I don't want to hear that Sarah has been allowed to ride outside the fort unless I've given her permission. You understand?"
Trail Walker didn't hear her response, he supposed she must have nodded in agreement.
"Now you better go back and get that beauty sleep you're so worried about losing. Heaven knows you need it!"
The fast retreating footsteps could only be those of an angry Rachel. Her door slammed shut. Trail Walker jump.
He didn't find the woman pleasing at all. She was all that a Blackfeet Indian found distasteful: selfish, deceitful, vain, harmful, and unloving. There were times though, like now, when he understood why Rachel had turned cold. At these rare times he could only feel pity for the woman.
If an Indian woman became unhappy with her husband, as Mrs. Bryson obviously was, she would simply tear the sleeping blanket in half and return to her parent's tipi. The white man had many strange customs.
The door to Sarah's room thankfully closed. Trail Walker took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Glancing over at Sarah, he found cobalt eyes staring back at him. His heart sang as he moved closer to her.
"How are you feeling, little one?" He gave her a happy smile, hoping to hide his concern.
"My head hurts. Don't worry, I'm fine."
He took in her weak smile and drooping eyelids. Her words brought him encouragement. He rubbed a weathered hand across her pale cheek, then left without a sound.
* * *
Piercing screams shattered her dream. She wondered if she had only screamed in her dream or if she'd vocally screamed her despair. Sarah's heart pounded hard against her chest. She found herself sitting up in bed, drenched in perspiration. Oh, God, no! Not this dream again. How many times in the last four years had she screamed herself awake from the same awful nightmare, only to find the silence that still trapped her?
She pulled her legs up to her bruised body, and then pressed her cheek into her knees. Her gaze rested on the closed door. Even if they had heard her screams, no one would come.
Closing her eyes, Sarah rocked back and forth, hugging her knees to her chest. It only increased the ache in her ribs and the sharp, stabbing pain in her head. Nothing seemed to soothe the turmoil in her heart.
She thrust her legs straight in defiance. Pain gripped her ribs, the gesture proved costly. Drained of all energy, she allowed her body to sink into the soft, down bed. It smelled faintly of lemon.
The moment her eyes closed, Sarah's mind returned to its tortured thinking. It became impossible to escape the memories, after the nightmare. The image focused in her mind. She watched her eight-year-old brother racing across the rocky flatland. With an adventurous toss of his blond hair, he headed straight for the steep cliff in front of them.
"Henry Junior, don't you dare climb that cliff," she warned, her gaze wandering up the formidable stone.
"Aw, come on, Sarah. You always spoil my fun. Father says boys should climb and run and stuff. You're just jealous 'cause you have to wear a dress and can't do what boys do." He wrinkled his nose at her.
"You're acting spoiled. Mother said I had to watch you, so don't do anything stupid. Climbing that cliff could be dangerous." She slipped her hand down his arm and tightened her fingers around his wrist.
Henry Junior twisted free of her hold. "Willigers, Sarah, just 'cause you're fifteen doesn't mean you have to treat me like a baby."
Sarah watched him wipe his finger under his nose, and shrugged in disgust. "Darn it, Henry Junior! Come on, we'd better get back to the wagons before someone starts wondering where we are." Shaking her head, Sarah spun around and walked in the direction of camp.
Small rocks snapped and banged against large boulders as they rolled and bounded down the rugged cliff. Sarah whirled around and then froze.
Halfway up the treacherous cliff Henry Junior climbed. "Henry Bryson, you come down from there right now!" she yelled, running closer to the steep formation.
"Aw, you scaredy cat. I ain't gonna fall. I'm gonna get you some of those eagle feathers," he answered, pointing to the top ledge, teetering his balance for a second.
"Henry Junior, this isn't funny. It's too dangerous. Come down right now," Sarah pleaded. She watched him pull himself even higher, her anxiety increased.
His voice faded as he continued to climb. She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't turn away. Finally he reached the huge, overhanging nest and proudly waved a handful of feathers.
"Come down," she yelled, motioning with her hand.
Without warning, a large Bald Eagle, her eight-foot wing span spread wide, swooped down at him. Sarah flinched at the bird's harsh, creaking cackle, kleek-kik-ik-ik-ik, and then an angry, warning low kak-kak-kak. Sarah gasped, shaking with fear. Air strangled from her throat.
The eagle appeared bent on ridding herself of the intruder. Wildly she flapped her large, dark wings. Sarah watched sticks and feathers spew in all directions, adding to the confusion.
Henry Junior clung to the nest, kicking and screaming. The eagle clawed at his head.
Sarah stared at him twisting and clinging to the matted overhang. A cold realization swept over her as sticks and weeds fell toward her.
"Henry, grab the rocks," she screamed. "Grab a rock, the nest is falling apart!"
He couldn't hear her. His head and shoulders were covered with weeds, feathers, sticks…and blood. She watched him struggle for his life!
She stood, helplessly watching. Fear and despair tore at her soul. This couldn't be happening! Stubborn grit snapped her into action. Sarah pulled her long skirt up from behind, tucking it in the front waistband of her dress, creating loose trousers. She pulled herself up the boulders, ignoring scraped fingers and bruised knees. Her only thoughts were at getting higher where she could help Henry Junior.
She looked up. A limb snapped. Henry Junior fell fast, bouncing against several boulders as he descended. Sarah's breath caught in her throat and her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded painfully against her chest. She closed her eyes and refused to open them, afraid of what she'd see lying at her feet.
"Sarah, help me! Sarah, I can't hold on!"
She bolted upright and searched the rocky surface. There! There he was, still alive! He clung to a bush jutting out from a rocky edge.
She swallowed with difficulty and found her voice. "Hang on, Junior. I'm coming!" she y
elled, scrambling to get to him. Each step seemed to take forever. The rocks, sharp and biting, tore at her flesh, she pushed upward. Junior's whimpers increased her drive to reach him.
Sarah didn't take time to stop and talk to her brother; she concentrated on the climb. She could see him. "Hang on! I'm almost there!" Sarah clenched her jaw to kill the sob in her throat. Pulling herself across a large boulder her dress came undone, tangling her legs in a mass of petticoats. Sliding back down on the hard rugged stone, Sarah landed on the edge of the cliff with a thud.
She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. Grabbing a handful of skirts, Sarah shoved them back into the waistband of her dress. Without hesitation, she pulled herself back up the boulder, not daring to look down.
"Sarah, I can't hold on any longer!"
"Yes, you can. Don't let go! I'm almost there. Henry Junior, you have to hang on," she shouted, not stopping a second in her ascent.
Sarah reached the overhanging cliff. Sliding on her stomach, she leaned over the edge in a desperate attempt to grab Junior's hand in hers. She couldn't reach him.
"Junior, don't be afraid. Squeeze your hands on that bush as hard as you can," she said, flipping her dress up, and tearing a petticoat into a wide strip. "Whatever you do…don't let go!"
"I can't, Sarah. I just can't."
"You have to. I'll tear up my petticoat and tie it together. We'll use it for a rope," she paused, glancing at him…Junior!"
He fell! She dropped to her chest, looking over the cliff. His screams echoed up to her. She watched him fall in stunned disbelief. His body grew smaller and smaller, until he became a dark spot on the ground below her. She couldn't breathe. Nausea and intense desolation swept over her. She vomited and lay motionless on the rocky overhang.
Her tormented mind felt nothing but confusion. Her tortured heart cried out in pain. Sarah screamed, "No, Junior, no!" Why didn't you hang on?" Tears flowed down her cheeks. It didn't happen. He'd be all right, she told herself. He had to be! Maybe he'd only have a broken bone. Maybe he wasn't…dead.