Pain in her spine woke her; she was surprised that she had finally nodded off. She dangled her legs on either side of the branch and sat forward, arching her back. The half moon sat high enough in the sky to filter though the leaves and light the ebony night. The tree's shadow stretched out on the ground below, creating a monstrous profile, but somehow the night didn’t seem so menacing. Sarah still kept her pistol close and grumbled at her predicament. The illuminating slice above her showed it close to midnight; another half of the night remained. Frustration made her want to cry. She adjusted her position one more time and leaned back into the hammock of limbs.
Fatigue won the battle over discomfort, and Sarah slept. In her dreams, she walked with Molly, telling tales, sharing laughter, and…Something summoned her back to awareness… a slow and steady ‘clopping’ slicing through their gaiety. She opened her eyes and tilted one ear upward to listen. The sound was real, not part of the dream, although it did resemble the steady hoof beats she recalled when Mr. Simms rode up and down the wagon train. Her mind whirled. Other animals had hooves. Maybe a buffalo strayed from the herd… a deer looking for water? Perhaps an Indian? Fear clutched her at her chest and stole her breath.
Sarah's bladder suddenly begged to be emptied. She constricted her stomach muscles and tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling. Remaining frozen in place, she locked her hand around the butt of her gun, keeping one finger poised on the trigger.
Chapter Six
Sarah's chest swelled with the need to breathe, but her heart trembled with fear that even an inhalation might give her away. Risking a tiny breath, she kept her eyes trained beyond the shadows. Within a few moments, a dim outline revealed the source of the noise that woke her. Just as she'd thought, she spied a horse, but it was still too far away in the darkness to tell anything more. As it neared, she saw no outline of an upright figure in a saddle, but the animal carried something—some kind of a pack, maybe.
She took in a big gulp of air, feeling relieved. The creature must have gotten loose from its owner and drifted aimlessly in the night. It stopped just beyond the tree and lowered its head to nibble on a patch of grass left undisturbed by the trampling hooves of buffalo. The silhouette showed the reins dangling free, and it occurred to Sarah that she gazed upon the answer to her prayer--a means of travel. She made no sudden moves, not wanting to spook the horse and send it galloping away. Instead, very slowly she stowed her pack, tucked her gun in her boot, and prepared to grab the branch and lower herself. Before she could, something thudded to the ground. She heard a loud moan. The hair on the back of her neck bristled. It wasn't a pack at all. It was a person.
Sarah froze in a crouch, wondering what to do. Her bladder screamed in protest, and a little bit of warm urine trickled out and dampened her bloomers. She constricted her muscles to staunch the leak, trying to avoid wetting herself completely. Just when things looked rosier, the familiar black veil of despair swooped down and shrouded her hopes again. Sarah bit into her knuckle and stared down from her lofty perch.
The form below her didn’t move or make any noise, and Sarah couldn’t stand her discomfort any longer. As quietly as possible, she lowered herself to the ground and hurried round to the backside of the tree and dropped her britches. She’d barely squatted when a steady stream pelted the soil and puddled around her feet. Her heart thudded in fear of what lay just a short distance away, yet she couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief to have finally emptied her bladder.
Sarah stood, pulled her bottoms up and hurriedly fastened them. She paused to peer around the tree trunk at the mysterious form crumpled in a heap just a few feet away. She inched forward, her heartbeat sounding in her ears. She bent and pulled her pistol, holding the weapon in a shaking hand. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened when she was close enough to see the painted face of an Indian at her feet. She gasped. Was he dead? She prayed he was.
Visions of her scalped traveling companions returned, and Molly’s cries rang in her ears. Sarah’s finger cramped with want to pull the trigger and gain retribution for the lost lives. But her morals kept her from it. With a sigh, she let her gun hand fall to her side, and stared at the prone figure. Taking a moment, she pondered her next move. Still grasping the gun tightly, Sarah knelt and pressed the shaking fingertips of her free hand into the flesh of the Indian’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Maybe he was dead. Repositioning her hand, she searched for the familiar thumping of life. It was there, shallow and slow, but evidence that he lived. Overwhelmed by fear and disappointment, she now had another choice to make—ride away on his horse or help him.
Judging from the halo of light edging the darkness in the east, sunrise wasn’t far off. If the savage remained unconscious until daylight, Sarah could continue on her way and leave him to fend for himself. That was what she wanted to do. She owed him nothing. Her heart hardened recalling poor Molly and the pain she suffered. Straining to see through the pale light, Sarah gazed at the painted cheek and wondered who would mourn him if he didn’t return. She shook her head. It wasn’t her problem.
Reaching up into the tree, she snagged her belongings and dropped into a crouch at the trunk’s base. She cast a wary stare at the Indian, wondering what was wrong with him. As soon as it was light enough to find her way back to the trail, she’d forget all about him. “He isn’t worth saving,” she mumbled. Her conscience argued, recalling a Biblical phrase, ‘judge not lest ye be judged.’
Her eyes grew heavy from staring at his shadowy outline, and when he moaned, she jumped to her feet and grabbed, her gun. She stood over his limp form, and in the blossoming dawn, clearly saw that he was young, maybe her age within a year or two. Bare from the waist up, his bronzed back rose and fell slowly with each breath. His long eyelashes fluttered as if keeping rhythm. Sarah’s fingers strangely longed to move the thick black braid that framed his high cheekbone so she could better see his face, but she didn’t dare.
Her face burned as her gaze traveled down the length of him. His bottom half was covered only by a rawhide flap. She tried not to stare, focusing instead on his strange footwear. The knee-length, fringed boots he wore were not like the ones she was accustomed to seeing; they appeared much softer. There were no apparent injuries, but a small circle of red colored the ground beneath him. Curiosity made her want to turn him over.
She argued with her conscience while eying his horse. As she’d already proclaimed to herself, she wasn’t a doctor. Even if she stayed, there was no guarantee she would know what to do. Making her decision, she grabbed her knapsack, donned her canteens and walked toward the grazing animal.
The horse eyed her nervously, and sidestepped away from her. “Whoa, girl,” she said, leaning over to make sure her assumption was right. It was definitely a mare.
“Come here, missy. I’m not going to hurt you.” Sarah held out her hand.
The horse softly whinnied, tossing her black mane in the air, then calmed and curiously sniffed Sarah’s outstretched fingers. Sarah reached for the lead rope, noticing at the same time that the animal wore no saddle. “Great. How do I get on?” She grumbled, tensing her jaw.
Tucking the rope under her neck, Sarah slipped her arms through her knapsack and hiked the bag onto her back. With her belongings in place, she grasped the twine and a hand full of horsehair and tried to heft herself astride, but failed. The horse was tall, at least sixteen hands, and there was nothing for Sarah to stand on. She wasn’t a practiced horsewoman, but the few times she had ridden, she’d always had a stirrup to step up into. “What next, oh Lord,” she asked, staring skyward. “You give me a means of travel but keep me from using it.”
After three more unsuccessful tries, the mare became as nervous as Sarah, skittering in a circle each time she approached. Sarah heaved a heavy sigh, deciding to lead the animal until she found a stump or something to help her get astride. The important thing was to get back on the road. She took one last rueful look at the young Indian, and started toward the trail.
Le
ading the plodding horse through the tall grass that lined the rutted road, Sarah kept a watchful eye for something to help her mount, but so far saw nothing. She looked over her shoulder, taking another glimpse of the injured man she left behind. Why did it bother her so? She argued that he’d probably kill her if he had a chance, but that didn’t make her feel any better. He was a living, breathing soul, and she’d been raised to respect life. She rolled her eyes, muttering a loud, “humph.” The Indians certainly had no bones about slaughtering her friends.
Spying a boulder cropping through the grass, she stopped beside it, pausing so quickly that the animal she led nudged her in the back. A smile tugged at Sarah’s lips as she teetered forward then turned back to the rock. At last, something encouraging.
Sarah stepped up onto the stone, preparing to mount. The petrifying sound of a rattle preceded a painful sting on the back of her leg. She grimaced in pain and dropped the lead rope to inspect the bite. The mare, frightened by the instinctive sound of a snake, whinnied and reared on hind legs, its front hooves coming dangerously close to Sarah’s head. Realizing its freedom, the horse bolted back down the trail, leaving Sarah stranded again.
Limping, Sarah backed away from the rock to avoid another strike. She hung her head, wishing she hadn’t disturbed the sleeping reptile, and bent, grasping her calf, trying to stem the burning pain beneath her flesh. She’d heard that sucking the venom out was a life-saving measure, but there was no way her mouth could reach the wound. Her mind raced. Surely God didn’t save her so she could fall victim to a rattlesnake. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her heart from pumping the deadly poison throughout her body. A fearful sob tumbled out when she exhaled. Maybe this was the Lord’s punishment for leaving another human to die.
No! Sarah’s mind refused to accept that explanation. She was a good person and she wasn’t about to lie down and give up. She had to think rationally. What would help? Quickly she shed her back pack, and clawed at the knot in one of the petticoat strips. She needed something to slow the blood flow. Her fingers trembled, making it impossible to undo the tightened fabric. She stopped for a moment and covered her mouth to muffle the scream building in her throat. The traveling venom created an uncomfortable heat as it made its way up her leg.
Suddenly she remembered the piece of a rawhide that held her hair in place. Reaching up, she stripped the tie from her thick tresses and quickly untied it and fastened it just below her knee. She nervously chewed her lip, noticing that the warmth subsided, at least for the moment.
Sarah pulled a canteen to her lips and washed the dryness from her mouth. She had to find help—somehow, somewhere. She couldn’t die, she wouldn’t die. Not like this. Picking up her belongings, she focused on the trail and forced herself to walk. Despite trying to remain calm, her pulse pounded in her temples and panic tightened her throat. She took a deep breath, and started to hum. The music brought serenity, as thoughts of childhood raced through her mind, at least until the pain pulled her back to the moment.
Her pant leg strained against her swollen calf. The burning sensation had returned and Sarah’s mouth felt as dry as cotton. Without slowing her pace, she took a huge swig of water and swished it around to quench her thirst. She swallowed it slowly, letting it soothe her throat.
Her gaze, fixed forward, searched for a miracle. For a moment, she lowered her lids in reverent prayer. “Please God, send someone to help me. Don’t let me…”
A bird, circling overhead cried out, interrupting Sarah’s plea. She shielded her eyes to look skyward, trembling at the sight of a lone vulture. When he swooped down for a closer look, Sarah dropped her pack and shielded her head with her arms. Greater than her fear of dying was knowing that the ugly scavenger’s call probably summoned others to join in the feast.
Tears burned Sarah’s eyes and a giant lump in her throat threatened to choke her. She bent and picked up a huge stone. “I’ll not be your dinner tonight,” she screamed, as she hurled the rock aimlessly into the air.
Crumpling into a heap, Sarah sagged to the ground and began to sob. “Or…or ever.” She hiccupped the end of her sentence, wondering if it was true. Even her gun couldn’t help her fight off a whole flock. She had only a few rounds of ammunition. She wanted to bargain with God, but it seemed like He had turned his back on her.
Her whole leg ached. The rawhide bit into her skin, and her calf felt as though someone held a branding iron to it. Surely if she released the tie, death was certain.With all the swelling, she couldn’t even pull up her pant leg to see the bite. Maybe it was just as well. She took another calming breath and tried to think positive thoughts. If only someone…anyone would happen along the trail.
Sarah felt lightheaded as she got to her feet. She had to push on. Wobbly at first, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping beyond hope that help would come. Each step sent a searing pain through her right leg. A short way down the road, she stopped and peered over her shoulder, realizing that in her delirium, she had left her belongings in the middle of the road.
She turned to go back for them, but sudden weakness replaced the pain. Her legs felt leaden, her gait uneven. Sarah staggered to the side, trying to retain her balance, but tripped on a hardened rut and fell headlong into the tall grass lining the trail. Her hat flew off, letting her long, blonde hair cascade free as she landed with a plop, crushing the sun-dried reeds beneath her.
The fall knocked the air out of her. Sarah rolled to her back and remained sprawled on the ground, searching the sky apprehensively. Terror combined with her rising fever and sent chills coursing through her veins. She tried to rise, but unseen forces held her down. There was no use. Even if she got up, as her mind commanded, her body couldn’t continue. What a horrid way to die—alone with no one to even shed a tear.
“Help me. Please God, hel.…” The sky blue faded to black as her eyes closed and her speech failed.
Chapter Seven
Gray Wolf blinked. Something was wrong. The strange view puzzled him, but as the grogginess disappeared, he realized he was stomach down on the ground, peering through blades of grass.
Something wet and warm nudged his arm. He stiffened then cautiously turned his head, feeling a flood of relief to see a hoof and Scout’s white muzzle. Each time a breath flowed from the animal’s nostrils, a whoosh of air bathed Wolf’s face.
His mind raced. Where was he?Why did his side hurt?
The horse prodded again, this time stronger. Wolf stroked her nose. The two had been a pair since Scout was a pony, and she was the one creature on earth he trusted to be loyal. At his continued touch, Scout meandered away and nibbled a nearby patch of prairie grass.
Partial memories returned as Wolf rolled over and gazed at the sky. He’d been foolish, thinking he could face a buffalo with only his skinning knife. Where was his warrior’s mind when he let the creature get between him and Scout? Wolf had dismounted and knelt to get a drink from the stream. As he cupped his hands and filled them with cool water, he heard an angry snort. The earth shivered when a bull thundered toward him, a cloud of dust rising in his wake almost obscuring the female behind him. Wolf’s heart had matched the sound of the pounding hooves. Normally placid, the rutting bull saw him as a danger and attacked. With no chance to run for safety, Wolf dove into the stream, lucky that only one of the razor sharp horns grazed his side. He cleansed the wound as best he could and rode until tiredness and blood loss rendered him unconscious. He didn’t even remember tumbling from his horse.
Placing his hand over the wound, Wolf then raised his palm to check for fresh blood. There wasn’t any. That was a good sign. The injury felt gritty with dirt, but perhaps that was what stanched the flow. Still woozy, he rested his head on his arm and stared into space, replaying the last day over in his head.
He couldn’t rid his mind of the massacre; wagon bonnets waiving in the breeze, bones picked clean, the smell of death lingering everywhere. And not one survivor. His sorrow for the lost souls was
clouded by joy that his late arrival prevented him from becoming yet another victim of his red brothers—or half-brothers. Gray Wolf, born a half-breed, struggled to find his fit in life. No matter what race he chose, there were always those who shunned him—tried to make him feel less than human. People’s hatred had only made him stronger and more determined to build a life for himself wherever he wished. He’d expected that same bitter treatment when he’d met Eli Simms, but he seemed different. Their meeting in Independence replayed itself in his mind.
Wolf had just ridden into town. Loud music and a woman’s shrill laughter drifted from inside the saloon to the hitching post where he dismounted and secured his horse.He was tempted to go inside for something to quench his thirst, but didn’t want to borrow trouble.
Turning from the rail, he stepped up onto the wooden walkway at the same time that another buckskin-clad figure burst through the swinging doors and walked right into him.
“Ex…excuse me.” The man turned, his shocked gaze drifting over Wolf.
Tension tightened Wolf’s jaw; his hand slipped down his side, closer to the knife secured to his leg.
The stranger’s craggy face had softened with his smile. “Pardon me, sir.” He offered his hand. “My name is Eli Simms. I didn’t mean to run ya down. Can I buy you a drink?”
Wolf had widened his eyes at the unusual show of respect. As much as would’ve liked a shot of whiskey to chase the trail dust, he’d shaken his head. There was no way he wanted to hear the theory on redskins and firewater again. “No thanks. I have some business to take care of, but I do appreciate the offer.”
Sarah's Heart Page 5