Simms had taken off his hat and wiped his sweaty brow. “Gettin’ a mite warm already.” He plopped it back on his head, then cupped his chin. “Say, you wouldn’t know anyone who might be interested in scoutin’ for a wagon train would ya?”
“Where’s it heading?”
“California. We’re leavin’ in the morning, and the scout I hired never showed up.”
Wolf had pondered the offer. He’d done some traveling and scouting for the army and knew his way around. The route to California was pretty much etched in the Oregon Trail by all the wagons that headed west on a daily basis. Besides, he needed the money. “I might be interested, if it’s worth my while.”
“I pay $100 at the end of the trip, plus food along the way.”
There was something about the man Wolf liked, and the job sounded like easy money. “Mr. Simms, you’ve got yourself a scout. Like I said, I have some business at the bank. How about I meet you in the morning?”
“That sounds fine with me. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Wolf…people just call me Wolf.” He expected a reaction but got a grin instead.
“Glad to have you join the group, Wolf. I’ll see you at sunup at the edge of town.”That was the end of their conversation.
Scout lifted her head and nickered, drawing Wolf’s attention back to present. He took a long breath, wincing at the pain. If he’d made that appointment, he’d most likely be dead. Although angry at the time at finding the bank closed in the middle of the day, he was happy now. He’d ridden out to where the wagons gathered to let Mr. Simms know about the delay—that he’d meet up with the train out on the trail. Afterwards, he’d secured a room at the local boarding house, only because he’d done some odd jobs there and knew the owner. Miss Maggie was a kind-hearted woman who never turned him away. She was the main reason he had money to put down on a piece of property.
The next morning he’d gone to the bank first thing to find it still closed. He later learned that the owner’s wife had passed, and the doors were closed out of respect for her. Another night at Miss Maggie’s had detained Wolf further.
When the bank finally opened, Wolf stepped up to the teller’s window and declared his intention to purchase the available acreage just outside Independence. He plopped down enough money for the initial down payment, pleased to know that what he’d earn from scouting would pay the rest.
The memory of the self-righteous bank clerk turned Wolf’s jaw rigid. Had the weasel not been protected by the bars on his teller’s window, Wolf would have grabbed him by his starched collar and ground the man’s spectacles into his face. Those painful words Wolf had heard his whole life still rang in his head. “We don’t deal with breeds in our establishment.”
Well, they did now. It only took pulling his knife and holding it near his own hair for him to convey a scalping to the scrawny clerk. Suddenly, the man became quite cordial, although forced. A smile tugged at Wolf’s lips, picturing the terror etched on that pious bastard’s face.
Gray Wolf pulled himself into a sitting position, again wincing at the pain. He pressed his palm to his wounded side again, checking for blood, but still there was none. A glance at his dust-covered thighs brought a loud exhalation. His clothes were gone. When the cool morning air had given over to building heat, he’d shed his buckskin pants and shirt, favoring only his breechclout. He’d meant to carry his discarded clothing in his parfleche, the beaded doeskin bag given by his mother, but the enraged bull buffalo had sidetracked him. Damn! The clothes could be replaced, but not his mother’s gift, not the last memento of a woman he cherished.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to play out. Mr. Simm’s had promised to provide all the provisions Wolf needed along with his pay. All he had to do was show up for the job. He met his end of the bargain, just a little late. Despite his disappointment, a breath of relief pushed past his lips. If he’d been on time, he wouldn’t be here worrying about having nothing to wear or eat. Half-breed scouts found themselves shot at just as often as white men by marauding war parties. The Pawnee tribe was the worst, and the uniquely feathered arrow shafts jutting from the wagon bonnets of the ill-fated train proved it.
Cheating death brought a smile to his face. Compared to the alternative, he’d suffer a little hunger and bear the cold nights anytime. Wolf wasn’t ready to ‘walk the spirit trail’, as his Sioux brothers would say.
He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled for Scout. The mare ceased grazing and obediently trotted to her master. Standing on wobbly legs, Wolf grabbed a handful of Scout’s mane for support, then sagging against the animal; he rested his cheek on her bristly coat. “Good girl. Thank you for not leaving me.”
A quiet whinny was his response.
Wolf gazed at the position of the sun. Too much of the day had passed to tarry longer. If he could get back to his campsite, there was plenty of water and berries. His side hurt like hell, but he pulled himself astride Scout and nudged her gently with his heels. He’d never reach Mini Ska—small water—if he didn’t get going. That was the name he’d given the place he found as a child—a small outcropping of rocks creating a perfect shelter along the banks of a creek. It had recently become his home, and his meager belongings were stashed there, safe from view. Unless someone searched along the bank, they’d be none the wiser. He had first used the small cave-like dwelling after his vision quest. He was twelve years old at the time, but remembered the ritual as if it were yesterday.
Sioux culture demanded that when a boy was on the threshold of manhood, he leave all his worldly possessions and family to commune with nature for four days and four nights, seeking a vision and an adult name from the Great Spirit. At the time, Gray Wolf was known by his ‘boy’s’ name, and spent time in a purification ritual in the sweat lodge. Hot stones were heated and passed through the entrance to have water poured over them to create steam. Wolf had sat naked in the enveloping cloud, calling upon the spirits to guide him on his journey. After the ceremony, the air inside filled with the refreshing smell of the piney outdoors as sage was used to wipe him dry before he left on his quest.
Clad only as he was now, the lad known then as Little Rabbit, traveled away from the camp, promising to forgo food and drink during the sacred trial. Wolf’s chest swelled with pride, remembering how he dug his vision pit atop a small hill, and prayed day and night for courage and wisdom. From this communion came the image of the animal—H’ota Sunktokeca—from which Gray Wolf took his Lakota name.
His stomach rumbled with the same hunger as it had on the fourth day of his vision quest. It was then, drained of emotion as well as energy, that he practically crawled to the stream he knew was nearby. After gorging himself on berries and drinking until his thirst was quenched, he crawled beneath the protection of the overhang and slept until he was strong enough to go back home.
Home. What he wouldn’t give to have one. He’d lost track of how long he’d been camping at Mini Ska. The land purchase took every cent he had, and the bank expected full payment within six months. What would he do now?The money he gave the clerk was earnings from repairs made to Miss Maggie’s place and helping out on a cattle drive. The drover who gave him the job didn’t care that Wolf was dressed like an Indian, and probably smelled like one, too. The man just wanted to get his animals to market. The experience stirred Wolf’s passion to become his own trail boss, running his own herd without a middleman.
A breath of frustration blew past his lips. Once he got back to camp, he’d devise a plan to raise the rest of money owed to the bank. Right now, he just wanted a drink and a nap. Following the furrowed trail east, Wolf clutched his side, trying to find a rhythm with each jarring step Scout took. At last, horse and rider synchronized and the pain lessened considerably.
He had no idea how far he’d ridden after the buffalo encounter, before lapsing into unconsciousness, but following the wagon’s highway back toward the river would get him where he needed to go. All he knew was that he was t
hirsty as hell and it was getting hotter by the minute.
Something in the middle of the trail caught his attention, but the sun’s heat waves bounced off the hard dirt and squiggled their way skyward, blurring the scenery. He squinted, trying to determine what it was, then noticed there was something else—jutting from the tall grass along side the path. “Hmm, it looks like a boot, Scout.”
He’d seen stranger things left behind by travelers; he laughed and patted Scout’s neck. “Lot a good one boot will do me.”
The mysterious item in the road revealed itself as a carpetbag, and then just beyond, as the Pinto plodded by, Wolf glanced down at what he considered discarded footwear. “Whoa,” he yelled, forgetting his injury and leaping from the animal’s back. There was a body attached to the boot. Wolf crouched beside the fallen figure, checking for signs of life.
Chapter Eight
Wolf swept the woman’s long blonde hair aside and felt her neck, checking for a heartbeat. He chewed his bottom lip, repositioned two fingers and pressed deeper into her flesh. The action struck an eerily familiar cord, almost like someone had done the same to him recently. He brushed the notion aside and prayed for a sign of life. He found it—a faint thudding against his fingertips. She was alive, but barely.
His gaze raked up and down her body, searching for obvious signs of injury. There was no blood, at least none visible, but his eyes widened. Canteens! There were two lying at her side, He licked his parched lips and carefully lifted her head, slipping the leather strap of one container over it. She felt limp as a rag in his arms, and looked beautiful, too. His gaze stalled on her creamy complexion and perfectly shaped features… until her small moan slapped his senses back.
As he laid her back down, he noticed the rawhide tied around her leg. There could be no other reason than snakebite. His thirst forgotten, he responded to his quickening heart and inched down the length of her body, giving a futile yank at her pant leg. It was no use. The material wouldn’t budge past the apparent swelling.
Wolf reached for his knife and quickly sliced the side seam of her denims, freeing her leg from its encasement. Her calf abnormally bulged but he saw no bite marks. Rolling her, he scanned the backside. Two angry, red puncture marks showed where the snake had injected deadly venom, something Wolf had seen many times before. He couldn’t tell when this bite occurred, and it was important to draw the poison from the body as soon as possible. His heart pounded like Lakota drums.
With no time to waste, he rushed to her belongings, still in the middle of the trail, and carried them back to where she lay. Hunkering next to her, he pulled a shirt from her bag and spread it beneath her head, then rolled her over to tend to her wound. With his knife, he cut an ‘x’ directly over the snakebite, causing the swollen pressure to erupt into a river of blood running down her skin and soaking the hem of the material beneath her. He used the sleeve to wipe away the excess, and then placed his lips against her calf, sucking with all his might to pull the toxins from her. The gush of thick, warm liquid inside his mouth made his stomach roil, and he turned his head and spit several times. Opening the canteen, he took a long pull of water, swished it around and spit again. A second draw from the hide-covered tin quenched his thirst.
Wolf clawed away a small patch of grass, exposing the earth beneath. He poured just enough precious water on the ground to create a paste, screwed the cap back on the container, and using his fingertips, spread the muddy concoction over the bite—where his lips had been only moments ago.
Scout ambled over and sniffed the woman. Wolf patted the Paint’s nose and spoke to her as he would any other friend. “It’s all right girl, I’ve done all I can. Now we just have to wait and hope it was enough. Let’s hope the mud works as good as the Shaman’s drawing salve.”
After using the reedy grass to wipe the excess muck from his fingers, Wolf searched the woman’s bag for something to wrap around her leg. His hand grazed something cold and metal and he withdrew a gun. “Look what I found, Scout. The lady’s armed.”
Curiosity clouded his mind. What would a beautiful woman be doing all alone in the wilderness? And dressed like a man? Could she possibly have survived the wagon train massacre?
The scene crept into his thoughts again, and he shook the dreadful images free. “No! No one lived through that,” he yelled at the sky, still angry at the useless slaughter. It would be just one more reason for people to hate him.
But where did she come from? He gazed again on her beauty, knowing if she returned to consciousness, she wouldn’t allow him within two feet of her. People’s prejudice left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He quickly set about binding her wound with the sleeve he ripped from another shirt. If she didn’t live, she’d have no use of a change of clothing, and if she did, the ones she wore could be washed. He had far more important things to worry about.
Wolf rolled her back toward him, and cradling her head in his lap, he felt her forehead. Fever raged beneath her alabaster skin. He lifted the canteen to her lips, trying to coax them apart, but to no avail. Instead, the tiny bit of water he drizzled on her mouth, tricked down the side of her face and onto his bare leg.
He tried again. This time, her long lashes fluttered, and then opened to reveal eyes matching the sky. Confusion furrowed her lovely brow.
“Molly, oh Molly, it’s you.” Her words were a mere whisper.
Who was this Molly person? Wolf wondered. He held his breath as his patient’s fingers caressed the side of his face.
“I had the most horrid dream that you were dead.”
Clearly her demons were fever induced, but her silken touch disturbed him more than her delusional mind. He pulled her hand from his face. “Who are you? What’s your name?” Perhaps he could find out where she came from and help her get home.
“Molly, I don’t feel so good. What happened to me?”
“Please listen, lady.” Wolf peered into her eyes. “I’m not Molly. My name is Gray Wolf, but you can call me Wolf.”
Maybe he was the one suffering from delusions. Did he really think she was lucid enough for introductions when she thought he was someone named Molly?He needed to take her back to his camp, where he could care for her properly. A few herbs remained in his belongings—from his mother’s medicinal stash. Maybe one would help reduce the fever. He particularly recalled the tribal medicine man dosing the victims of Spotted Fever with willow bark tea. Luckily, Wolf had some of the crushed powder.
He whistled for Scout, rigged a makeshift rope around her neck, and then secured the carpet bag to it. He stooped and tried to stand with the injured woman in his arms. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten about his own wound, but the added weight served him an instant reminder. He gnashed his teeth in agony, trying not to sag back to the ground with his limp cargo. As he wrestled to get a firmer grip on her, he locked his knees and straightened. A loud exhalation whooshed past his lips. How did one mount a horse while holding someone in their arms? He studied Scout and searched for an answer. Did everything have to be such a struggle?
Wolf gingerly draped the woman over Scout’s broad back, then holding a handful of mane, leapt up behind her and pulled her up into his arms. Her breathing was slow and even, with each exhalation caressing his face like a gentle breeze. His heart quickened at her amazing beauty. Maybe it was the difference in her skin and those of the Indian women he grew up among. He’d seen white women before but this one reminded him of a porcelain doll he once glimpsed in mercantile window in Independence.
He heaved a sigh. Why did he keep getting sidetracked? He nudged Scout forward and prayed the ride back to his camp wouldn’t be the blonde one’s demise. If only she held on a little longer, he might have something that would save her.
* * *
Wolf slid to the ground and pulled her along with him, cradling her in his arms. She’d been unconscious the entire way, and that was good. At least she didn’t suffer discomfort. Staggering under the added weight, each step was a challen
ge for Wolf, his feet sinking in the fine sand along the riverbank. He ducked beneath the rocky overhang and sidestepped his way to his bedroll, kneeling there to put his burden down.
“Molly, where are you?” She called out again, her blue eyes clouded with fevered confusion.
Brushing silken strands of hair from her forehead. “You’re fine.” He used his most assuring voice. “Molly isn’t here, but I’m going to help you.”
Her blonde head lolled to the side again, and Wolf pawed through his belongings, looking for the parfleche that held his medicinal herbs. He’d made a wise decision to leave his belongings here until he found the wagon train. After all, this was his home.
He found the small doeskin bag and crawled a few feet away to the fire pit just outside. Reaching for a handful of dried grass and bark from his stash, Wolf created a tinder ball in the middle of the rock circle. With diligence, he continued striking a piece of flint against his knife blade until a smoldering spark sent a small cloud of smoke spiraling upward. Wolf bent and gently blew, watching the embers brighten, then ignite into flames. He fed the small fire more dried reedy grass and bark until it had fully blossomed, then added some larger pieces of driftwood he’d found along the creek. With the fire crackling, he went to water’s edge, knelt and filled a small cooking pan and returned to the pit. He rifled through his medicinal parfleche, found the piece of cloth that held the precious willow bark, and measured a small amount between his thumb and forefinger then dropped it into the liquid. As soon as the water bubbled, the fever-reducing tea would be ready. He scanned the area for his cup, wishing he had some ground red elm bark to use as a poultice. He crawled to his tin coffee mug and heaved a sigh. Would the herbal tea even help?
“Molly, Molly, where are you?” Her voice sounded so weak.
Wolf inched back to the fire and tested the water with his finger. Deeming the potion boiled long enough, he dipped the cup into the liquid and filled it half full. He carefully made his way back to where his patient lay.
Sarah's Heart Page 6