Sioux Sunrise

by Ron Schwab

  Tom stopped for a moment and looked back. Sarah looked done in; her face was flushed, obviously burned raw by the cutting wind that lashed her cheeks. Tom brushed away the frosty ice that had formed in the corners of his eyes. Damn, he was not doing so well himself. They could both freeze to death up here.

  "Sarah!" he yelled, pulling his coat up around his ears. "I can't make out the trail anymore. Be sure to stay next to the wall. Hug it just as close as you can. . . . Are you okay?"

  "I'll be all right," she answered uncertainly.

  "Try to follow my tracks," Tom called. "This is going to be a granddaddy blizzard before the night's out."

  They trudged on, painstakingly, down the slippery trail as the wind howled like a banshee through the canyon. Suddenly, behind him, Tom heard the frantic whinnying of the black gelding and clashing of hoof against rock. Turning, he saw Sarah struggling to hold the animal and at the same time, maintain her own delicate balance as the horse slid closer to the trail's edge.

  "Let go!" he yelled. Sarah still pulled at the reins. In a second, the horse was going to pull her over. "Sarah! Let go, now!"

  She let loose of the reins just as the gelding toppled over the edge, its hideous shrieking sending shivers down Tom's spine until it ended with a sickening thud as the horse hit the canyon floor below. Sarah pressed her back tight against the canyon wall, shocked and petrified, declining to take one step farther down the trail.

  "Sarah, come on!" Tom yelled, his voice muffled by the wind. "We've got to keep moving."

  She just gazed downward into the seemingly bottomless abyss, shaking her head back and forth, uncomprehending. Finally, slowly and carefully, Tom squeezed between his own horse and the chasm wall and inched his way back toward Sarah.

  When he reached her, he took her stiff, frozen hand in his and pulled her to him, cradling her head against his shoulder, his lips brushing her forehead softly. As the bleak wind whipped between their faces, he whispered, "Sarah, I love you. Don't give up on me now." He felt her hands tighten around his back, holding him close as if she were afraid he might somehow escape.

  After a few moments, she tilted her head upward slightly and shook her head. "I'm coming." Sanity crept back into her eyes. Hand in hand, they edged by the horse and continued down the trail, each drawing strength from the other. In a short while, the trail began to widen again, telling Tom they were nearing the canyon floor. Still, he did not breathe easily until they reached the trail's end and stepped off onto the solid ground below. He boosted Sarah on the horse and led the mount through the deepening snow toward the rundown trapper's shack.

  31

  JOE STAYED WITH the high country as he galloped southward. The slicing wind left him numb with cold, but it was a fast trail—plenty of elbow room and few obstructions. He had been traveling the better part of the night, and, as he glanced warily back over his shoulder, he could see no sign of pursuit. He had good reason to feel safe now; some miles up the trail, the white, craggy slopes that framed the Sioux village shone fluorescent-like in the early morning darkness telling him that heavy snow had visited the mountain hideaway.

  Until now, Joe had left the snow behind him, and the white flakes could not have come at a better time to cover his escape. The last hour, however, fluffy, scattered snowflakes had started to drift in with the bleak wind and now commenced to gather on the trail forming milky webs on the rocks. As the coal-black sky turned slate gray, the snow worsened, finally obliterating any trails, and Joe reined in his tired, huffing gelding. Off to his left, he sighted a cluster of large boulders to offer sanctuary from the storm. He tied the horse behind the rocks and after unsaddling the animal, snuggled in between the boulders. He built a small fire; then, wrapping himself mummy-like in his blankets, fell quickly to sleep.

  He huddled in the rocky haven until mid afternoon that day when the snow gradually faded away and the wind exhausted its fury. A serene quiet came to the low-set mountains, and Joe looked out on a blanket of white. He downed some hardtack and twisted beef jerky, saddled his horse and continued southward along the snowy ridge. Below, he could see a deep, almost unfathomable, sea of oyster-white waves filling the ravines and canyons. In marked contrast, the ridge which he now rode had been swept broom-clean by the raging wind and for the time being, the snow was no obstacle to his progress.

  Later, the trail grew more rugged, and the ridge turned spiny, dipping sharply and frequently as Joe turned the horse down the trail toward the open plateaus that promised a speedy journey to Fort Fetterman. Edging the horse down the steep, treacherous incline, Joe found himself increasingly bogged down in the snow that filled the holes and clefts, and his mighty arms strained to their limits as he coaxed and pulled his reluctant mount through one drift after another.

  On one such effort, Joe pulled strenuously at the horse's reins, and when the animal lunged forward, his right front foot slipped on the icy stone and turned under, sending him tumbling backward into the drift. When Joe tried to pull the horse free again, he noted that the animal's leg turned at a peculiar angle. Then, kneeling beside the horse, he saw the splintered bone poking through the hide. He untied his bedroll and saddlebags and pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and, patting the horse gently on its neck, he stepped back and slammed the bullet between the animal's eyes. He turned, his face grim, his jaw set firm, and headed down the trail to the flatter lands below.

  32

  FORT FETTERMAN WAS situated on the south bank of the North Platte River at the mouth of LaPrele Creek, and its low, white buildings perched atop a high, stark bluff made the army outpost visible for some miles. Joe had scouted Fetterman country several years before, and the red clay and sandstone that peeked through the windswept snow told him that the end of his long trek was in sight.

  Now the terrain was crisscrossed with ravines and gullies, and Joe scanned the horizon for some familiar sign. He paused, fixing on a long bluff perhaps five miles to the east. He took a deep breath and quickened his pace, trotting for a while, and then slowing to a brisk walk, as he headed for the bluff.

  It was turning colder, and the sun was shooting forth its last feeble rays of the day when Joe walked seemingly out of nowhere into the fort. The guards looked on in puzzlement and confusion at the black giant until someone finally summoned the officer of the day.

  Abruptly, Joe was confronted by a curious young second lieutenant. "Where in the blazes did you come from, mister?” the lieutenant asked. His manner was friendly.

  "Little Powder River country," Joe answered. "I've been walking the better part of two weeks. I'm supposed to meet two friends here—a man and a young woman. They should've made it by now."

  "You're the first fellow outside of army that's been here for weeks," the lieutenant said. "They haven't made it yet. You say you've been walking out there two weeks, mister? Christ, you should've been dead days ago. You don't look like you've even missed dinner."

  "Well, I've missed a lot of dinners these last days, and I could sure stand something to eat. Then I could sleep for a week." His face turned sober and worry creased his eyes. Joe muttered to himself, "They must be stuck in that damn canyon. I shouldn't have left them."

  "What’s that, mister?" the lieutenant asked.

  "Nothing, lieutenant," Joe said, "just talking to myself. Too many days in the snow, I guess. How about something to eat? If it's all right with you people, I'll stick around this place for a little while. There's not a damn thing I can do for my friends now. If they don't show up in a few days, I'll head down Cheyenne way before winter really takes hold. With all due respect, I sure as hell don't want to spend the next four months here at Fetterman."

  "Can't say as I blame you," the lieutenant said. "Not too crazy about the idea myself. They call the only other alternative desertion, though."

  33

  TOM AND SARAH huddled together in one corner of the shack where the splintered pine logs that formed the south side met the stark canyon wall that constituted the back. Sadd
les, deer hides, and supplies were stacked fortress-like about them in an attempt to ward off the wind and snow that whipped through the gaping cracks between the timbers.

  When they had returned dazed and exhausted to the canyon camp the previous night, they gathered everything in sight and barricaded the corner as best they could. Then they had stumbled into the little shelter and, pulling blankets over their heads, waited out the storm. The wind had wailed eerily throughout the night, and Tom dozed only sporadically as the numbing, creeping cold aborted his efforts to sustain sleep.

  Tom and Sarah had spoken only a few perfunctory words since their harrowing exodus down the trail. Throughout the night, whenever Tom had glanced down at Sarah nestled tightly, almost fearfully, against his shoulder, he could see the whites of her round eyes, almost fluorescent-like in the dark as she stared, unblinkingly, at the wall. Once, he had asked her if she was warm enough, but received no response. It was as if she were lost in another world, oblivious to his presence and to the blizzard that threatened their very lives.

  She had evidently suffered a sleepless night, but it was now past noon, and she seemed lost in deep slumber as her head rested against his shoulder. During the crisis on the trail, he had professed his love to this golden-haired enigma; he had blurted out the words like a guileless country bumpkin, and now he felt awkward and embarrassed by it. Would she remember his words? If so, would she laugh them off, make light of the whole thing? No, that was not Sarah's way. On occasion, her sense of humor was needle-like, but in a matter so close to the heart, the sensitive, compassionate Sarah would try to ease rejection's pain. He admitted to himself that he had indeed fallen in love with Sarah, but now his ecstasy was dampened by the realization that his love might not be reciprocated. Uncertainty seized his mind when he looked ahead to the possibility of a separation—perhaps forever—from the bewitching creature beside him.

  He looked down at Sarah's pale face, so terribly innocent and vulnerable now in sleep. Her sensuous lips curved ever so slightly upward as though she might be lost in a pleasant dream. Prickly sensations, like spiny cactus needles sticking in his flesh, rippled up and down Tom's arm, and numbness overtook the limb. He wiggled his fingers and made a fist a few times, seeking to stimulate the tired arm, and in doing so, jostled Sarah's head. She shook her head drowsily, and her eyes blinked open.

  "I didn't mean to wake you," he said.

  "The wind's stopped," she observed matter-of-factly.

  "You're a bright girl," Tom said. "It's also afternoon and I'm hungry as a bear." He tossed off the snow-speckled blankets and rose stiffly, extended his hand and pulled Sarah to her feet.

  When Tom opened the creaky shack door, the sun struggled to peek through the overcast sky above, and the glare of the clean fresh snow blinded him momentarily. The wind had done some strange things with the snow. In some spots, especially near the creek, gray rock rose nakedly from the earth where the wind had swept, almost polished, its surface clean. A knee-high blanket of white covered much of the canyon floor, however, and along the canyon wall, enormous drifts, many several times Tom's height, curved out like ocean waves rising in a hurricane.

  Tom's eyes searched for some sign of the trail. "Sarah," he said, "I can't even make out the trail. Even if I could, I don't know how we'd get out of here. We're trapped . . . just like a couple of rabbits in a snare. We'd just as well get ready for a long stay . . . a hell of a long stay."

  "If you'll scare up some wood, I'll fix us something to eat," Sarah replied, and moved back into the cabin. Now she was the pragmatic, practical Sarah.

  Tom was relieved to see that she had cast off her dazed stupor. They would have to pull together if they were going to come to the end of this ill-fated trek alive.

  Later, as they hunkered by the little fire south of the shack, they attacked hot biscuits and beans like two hungry wolves. After she had devoured her fill, Sarah finally asked, "Tom, you never really explained about Billy. You said he got away from the Indians, but I don't think you told me everything."

  Tom related the bits of information he had received from Joe during their hasty flight from the Sioux village. "Joe didn't think Billy could've lived long in those hills, and I've got to say things look pretty bad. I'm sorry, Sarah, but you're going to have to accept the fact that Billy may never be found."

  Sarah was silent for a moment. Tom's eyes met hers directly. Against the sculptured white background of the canyon walls, her eyes were ice blue. They were determined eyes, but sensitive, understanding. Damn, he was clay in her hands.

  Finally, Sarah said, "Tom, I won't accept the notion that Billy's dead. I can't believe that Stone Dog's death was wasted. Billy's alive somewhere, and we'll find him . . . we have to."

  Tom shook his head in disbelief.

  For the next week, Tom and Sarah poured themselves into the task of survival. Tom released the horses to forage for themselves in the meager grass and underbrush that grew farther up the canyon. There was no way they could escape, and, with luck, they would survive the winter. The meat supply would be no problem. Rabbit and deer were bountiful throughout the canyon, and the snow cover made tracking easy. Trout flourished in the creek that raced by their camp. The diet might be monotonous, but they would not starve.

  The real enemy now was winter. Fortunately, the days had warmed somewhat since the storm. The sun had shone brightly the last three days, and the light thaw that resulted formed a heavy crust on top of the snow discouraging further shifting by the wind.

  More importantly, the break in the weather had given Tom and Sarah a last chance to fortify themselves against winter's inevitable attacks.

  Tom chiseled hard red clay from the banks farther up the creek, and Sarah warmed the chunks at the fire until they were pliable enough to use for chinking the holes between the timbers. Using the stones that were already in the shack, they rebuilt the crude fireplace. The deerskins harvested in the Black Hills and preserved at Stone Dog's insistence, now provided warming rugs for the cold, stone floor of the shack. A single buffalo hide softened the floor beneath their bedrolls. Excitedly, like newlyweds, Tom and Sarah planned the rustic furniture and other trappings they would fashion for the abode in the weeks to come.

  Outside the dwelling, they constructed a series of large windbreaks by piling limbs and branches along the north edge of the camp area, stretching perhaps some twenty feet from the cabin. While weather permitted, Tom amassed huge stacks of firewood just outside the cabin door, and Sarah lashed together long poles with rawhide strips to make frames for stretching animal skins and hanging meat. Nature would provide all of the preservative they would need.

  Tonight after they finished supper and just before darkness swallowed the canyon, Tom added another armload of firewood to his growing stacks. He stepped into the shack and moved to the fireplace, stretching his hands over the flickering flame to catch its warm glow. Sarah knelt near the fire, her slender fingers moving smoothly and deftly as she sliced narrow strips of rawhide from buckskin.

  Tom watched her silently. The orange firelight cast its luster on her serene face, all of its radiant warmth seeming to focus on this one spot in the otherwise dark, austere room. A crackling fire, a pretty, gentle woman—funny how they seemed to belong together. One without the other, it was not quite the same.

  Throughout the entire journey, and especially the past week, he had been awed by her willingness to perform the tough, often punishing, physical tasks ordinarily reserved for the male of the species. She had chopped and carried wood, even hunted game, everything Tom could have expected of a man.

  Still, not for one moment, had Tom been unconscious of Sarah's womanliness. He commended himself for the priest-like restraint he had exhibited as she slept beside him during those long, restless nights. But was he really all that virtuous? Indecisiveness had never been a part of his character, but now he found himself uncertain, hesitant. It was unthinkable, with this woman, that he would ever force his affections upon her. Yet he w
anted her—wanted her badly—but only if she shared his passion.

  Alone these recent days, they had grown to know each other as they never had before. During the day, they found little time to talk; but, at night, sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace, they talked for hours sharing their family histories, little personal anecdotes, their hopes and dreams—sharing in laughter and sadness. In all of their conversations, however, they had never discussed their feelings for each other. Sarah had not alluded to Tom's acknowledgment of love made that bitter night on the canyon trail, nor did either touch upon other tender moments they had shared together. They skirted this area of their relationship guardedly, and Tom thought, ironically, in spite of all that had passed between them, they might be brother and sister. He wanted more than a sisterly love, but if this was all that it would be, he could accept it—as long as he could be with her.

  Tom shivered as he felt a draft gust around his neck. The shack still needed some more work, and the cold was starting to bite at his ears. "Do you suppose it's about time to call it a night?" he said. "It's starting to get nippy."

  "Go ahead," she answered, "I'll be along in a minute."

  Tom stepped out the door and came back quickly with another armload of firewood, tossing a few of the heavier logs on the dwindling flame. As the logs ignited, orange flames crept higher, warming the shack noticeably. Tom pulled off his boots and slipped under a pile of blankets.

  Shortly, Sarah followed suit. He felt the warmth of her body next to his as she snuggled close. Usually, she wanted to talk awhile at this time, but tonight she was strangely quiet. They lay there silently for the better part of a half hour, heads tilted toward the fire's dancing flames, catching its warm glow full on their faces. Sarah lay nearer the fire, only a few feet from its warmth, and Tom could not see her face.