Grace and the Guiltless

by Erin Johnson

  Grace backtracked, panic rising in her chest, trying to remember the twists and turns she had taken, but to no avail. She searched until the sun was starting to set, but she couldn’t find the tree the preacher had settled her under.

  Her heart sinking, she realized that she and Bullet needed to find more water so they wouldn’t run out again. She couldn’t keep searching. The tintype was gone.

  A tear trickled down her cheek, followed by another. She had lost the last tie to her family, her last memento of a happier time. Grayness settled over her mind like ashes from the burned cabin, blanketing her in gloom. She squinted despondently at the setting sun. She needed to get up into the Dragoon Mountains to discover where Hale and his gang were hiding out, so she could lead the deputy to them. But night was falling, and she couldn’t stay out in the open unprotected.

  She pulled on the reins to turn Bullet uphill, and with each step away from the place where the tintype might lie, Grace’s heart grew heavier until a ball of hardness settled in her chest. She had to keep pulling her mind back to one thought: her mission. If she started grieving, she would never stop. Giving in to sadness would paralyze her.

  “Bullet,” she whispered. “You’re all I have left.” She loosened her grip on the reins and let the horse have his head. He walked slowly, nose down. She would never forgive herself if he collapsed. More water first. Then Hale.

  Bullet took them higher into the granite mountains. Endless piles of rocks and sharp, steep cliffs rose all around them. The trail was rough, and several times the horse stumbled when loose rocks slid under his hooves, but he plodded on. They mounted another ridge, and in the growing dusk Grace could make out a small stand of trees not far away.

  Trees? That meant water. Grace didn’t even need to touch the lead rope. Bullet headed straight in that direction.

  Grace heard it before she saw it, and she sighed with relief — water trickling over rocks. A welcome, wonderful sound.

  Bullet’s tired gait changed. He lifted his drooping head and pranced forward. They plunged through a low thicket and emerged by a stream.

  She slid from Bullet’s back and let him wade into the water.

  Then, suddenly, Grace shivered.

  If she had found a stream out here in the desert where water was so scarce, Hale had to be around here somewhere too; he and his men couldn’t survive without water. If she followed the stream, surely she would come upon their hideout soon enough. But she’d have to be cautious and find the Guiltless Gang before they found her.

  First she drank, then she splashed cold water on her face and hands to wash away the grime and dust. Grace longed to wade in beside Bullet, but darkness was falling fast. Nights in the desert were cold this time of year, and the air in the mountains was already growing brisk. She needed a place to sleep, somewhere she could stay warm and dry. While Bullet nibbled the grasses along the bank, Grace searched the steep cliffs for an overhang, somewhere they would both be safe.

  The moon was rising now — a small sliver — and pinpricks of stars sparkled overhead. Grace had often sat on the porch with her parents after the others were in bed, gazing at the sky, enjoying the beauty of the night, listening to coyotes’ distant, mournful howls.

  Here, the coyotes sounded much closer — dangerously so. Grace shivered again. Mountain lions. Mexican wolves. Bobcats. They all made their homes in the hills. And out here she had no cabin walls to hide inside. No Pa with a shotgun across his knees. No protection other than his Colt pistol. Grace patted the leather bag the preacher had given her, her hands resting on the bulge of the gun and holster. At least she hadn’t lost that. Pa had taught her to shoot, but that had been years ago. She hadn’t fired a gun except for the occasional rattler. Her skills were rusty. She hoped she wouldn’t need to use it.

  While Bullet grazed, Grace continued to study the nearby cliffs. There were several promising overhangs and darker indentations that might hold caves. When Bullet had had his fill, Grace mounted and headed up the steep trail.

  Pa had taught her to watch for signs of wild animals, but unlike the sands near the ranch, where even sidewinders’ bodies left trails, the rocky ground here didn’t seem to hold tracks as easily, so she searched for scat. Most of the animal droppings looked dried, so maybe she would be safe here.

  She spotted a low and narrow overhang, but it was far enough off the ground that she could crawl under it. She’d been up in these mountains a few times with Pa, so she knew that sometimes it snowed this time of year — a brief powdery shower that usually melted soon after sunrise. Under the overhang she would be protected from snow or from the rare thunderstorms that sent floods crashing into the arroyos.

  Grace dismounted. No scat nearby. She knelt and peered inside. Dusk made it difficult to see much, but cobwebs crisscrossed the opening, so it obviously hadn’t been used in awhile. With a dead branch, she scraped out the webs and debris.

  Then, too tired to gather wood for a fire, she snaked her way underneath and curled up on the rocky ground, wishing Bullet could fit inside too. The warmth of his body might ward off some of the loneliness that had come with gazing at the distant stars.

  She rubbed her arms to relieve the chill, but the slight warmth it produced couldn’t ease the iciness that froze her from the inside out. Unfamiliar rustlings, howls, and hoots kept her awake most of the night, until exhaustion finally overtook her.

  * * *

  The sun had not yet risen when Bullet whinnied. Grace’s sleep had been restless, as the cold dampness of the stones had seeped into her bones. She felt bruised from head to toe after spending the night on the hard ground, and she shivered uncontrollably in the pre-dawn air.

  After checking to be sure the gun was still in the pouch, Grace snugged it like a saddlebag to Bullet. Sadness filled her as she remembered the lost tintype. Should she search for it again? Much as her heart ached, she had to push on, find out where Hale and his gang were hiding, get the deputy and a posse. Then she would retrace her route from town.

  In the dawn’s grayness, Grace walked Bullet down to the creek. Most of the mountain sounds had stilled, and the eerie silence pressed in around her. The clip-clop of Bullet’s hooves on the rocks echoed noisily.

  A cloudy mist rose from the creek. Through the trees ahead Grace could make out vague shapes.

  The gang?

  She stopped, her heartbeat quickening . . . until she realized it was just a writhing mass of animals, all drinking in the stream. Shapes moved, separated. They lifted their heads, suddenly alert at her arrival. Grace just made out the rounded horns of pronghorn deer before they charged off into the trees.

  She drank some water and then refilled the water container. Bullet had wandered farther down the bank, nibbling the grasses. Grace stood and stretched.

  But suddenly she stopped dead, her hands still in the air. A vague, misty shape emerged from the gloom. Not quite as tall as a horse, but broader and bulkier through the body. The creature lifted its head to show small, rounded ears and a pointy snout.

  A bear.

  It sniffed the air and looked straight at Grace.

  Their eyes locked, and it started lumbering toward her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Run! Grace’s inner voice screamed, but her muscles went rigid, immobilizing her.

  Bullet whinnied in alarm but Grace couldn’t tear her gaze from the bear.

  Her father’s warning ran through her head. As if Pa stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder, his words sounded clearly in Grace’s head: Never run from a bear.

  “Pa?” she whispered.

  His presence surrounded her. It almost seemed that if she reached out her hand, she could touch him. But she knew she was alone, and panic clouded her mind. Pa had taught her a rhyme about bears. What was it?

  The bear lumbered closer.

  Grace’s throat closed. If she backed away slowly, would i
t attack?

  The gun. Why hadn’t she kept the gun with her? Pa had never gone anywhere without his gun.

  The rhyme. Think of the rhyme. How did it start? Grizzly . . .

  Grizzly, grizzly, play dead. Black bear, black bear, hit it in the head.

  But which kind of bear was it? Grace couldn’t tell. In the gloom, its coat looked as gray as the sky. The hump on the back of its neck rippled with each step, and its white teeth gleamed in the low dawn light. And those eyes. They pinned her in place.

  Grizzy bear, black bear. If she chose wrong, she would be dead.

  Pa’s voice came again. Make noise. Try to scare it off.

  Grace cleared her throat, but her spit had dried in her mouth. All that came out was a choking sound.

  Do it, Grace. Try again.

  I’m trying, Pa. Grace swallowed hard.

  She tried to wet the inside of her mouth, loosen her tongue. She opened her mouth, and a weak gurgle came out.

  Again, Pa’s voice commanded.

  A shrill scream came from her lips this time, growing louder, stronger. She clapped her hands, stomped her feet in a crazy, frenzied dance, and finally the bear stopped for a moment. Grace couldn’t tear her gaze from its eyes — they seemed to glow: yellow, piercing.

  Then the bear advanced once more. Grace’s stomach flipped.

  Grace bent down, scrabbling blindly on the ground for loose rocks until finally her hand closed over a large chunk. She stood and hurled it without hesitating.

  Bull’s-eye.

  The bear shook its head and growled deep in its chest.

  Grace scooped up more handfuls of rocks and sticks and tossed them furiously. With yowls of pain, the bear crouched, but it didn’t leave. Instead, it sprang straight toward her.

  With a loud squeal, Bullet charged. Bear and horse met in a snapping, snarling mass of tearing teeth, flying hooves, slashing claws, growls, whinnies — and screams.

  Grace’s was the loudest.

  “Bullet!”

  Blood dripped from his flank. No, no, no.

  Grace launched herself at the bear from the side and pounded a rock against its skull. Jaws wide, it tipped his head sideways, aiming for her neck. Just as it did, Bullet reared. Blood streaming down his legs, Bullet crashed down onto the bear’s back, rescuing her, but the beast’s claws slashed out, raking down Grace’s arm and tearing her flesh.

  The bear rolled sideways, whimpering.

  Grace took the opportunity and raced toward Bullet to get to the saddlebag. She caught up with him as he bucked and reared, and she fumbled in the leather pouch for the gun. She’d never let it leave her side from now on. But before she could pull the pistol out, the bear stumbled to its feet and shook himself.

  Grace stared at the bear, out of breath from her effort. What was it doing?

  The huge creature let out a single bone-shaking growl. Then it turned and crashed through the woods.

  Grace exhaled sharply and turned back to Bullet. Afraid to mount the horse with his body bleeding so badly, Grace grabbed the reins and quickly led him away, making sure to stay close to the stream.

  Panic built in her chest, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Bullet kept pace beside her, but his own breathing was wheezy and whistling. They had to stop and rest. Grace’s whole ribcage ached from the thumping of her heart.

  When Grace thought they were far enough from the bear, she halted, one hand wrapped around the gun. She glanced around for any signs of wildlife, wary of another possible attack. But other than skittering ground squirrels and chirping birds, the area seemed deserted.

  A sudden searing sting drew Grace’s attention to her arm. There were slash marks that ran from wrist to elbow, and her eyes widened in shock at the blood that flowed warm and wet from the torn skin of her inner arm. How had she not felt this until now?

  “Oh . . . oh, my Lord . . .”

  Now the pain rushing through her made her head spin. Shaking uncontrollably, Grace sank to the ground and set the gun beside her. She wrapped her hand around the wound, trying to hold it closed to staunch the bleeding, but blood quickly coated her fingers.

  “Got to . . . stop it . . .” she whispered.

  Using her good arm, she lifted the hem of her dress to her mouth. Clamping the fabric between her teeth, she tore off a strip, then she sat on the ground and cradled her arm in her lap. She looped a makeshift bandage around her forearm and pulled it tight with her teeth.

  Beside her, Bullet snorted. Oh, no. Two of his legs and his flank were a bloodied mess.

  Grace forced herself to her feet. Dizzy and shaky, she led Bullet to the water and tried to wash off the blood. The water stung her injured arm so badly it was all she could do to keep from passing out. The water swirling around them turned pinkish, making her stomach roil.

  When she had washed away as much blood as she could, she nudged Bullet back to the grassy bank and collapsed beside him.

  Stuffing her sopping-wet skirt into her mouth, Grace bit down on the damp material, but now that it was wet, it wouldn’t tear the way the dry fabric had. Frantically, Grace chewed and pulled at it a little at a time until finally she had managed to make several strips.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She wrapped the pieces around the mangled flesh of Bullet’s legs and pressed a wad of fabric to the wound on his flank. Holding her injured arm close to her chest, she reached for Bullet’s reins.

  They had to get out of here. Did angry bears return? Grace didn’t know. All she knew was that she and Bullet had to leave, fast.

  Bullet hobbled along at her side. Grace shoved aside underbrush with her good arm while she hugged her injured arm close to her side. Blood had already soaked through the cotton she had tied around it, and the bandages on Bullet’s legs were reddening too. His gait grew stiffer as the sun rose higher in the sky.

  Hunger clawed at Grace’s belly. She had finished the last of the preacher’s pemmican last night and hadn’t eaten anything since. She looked around desperately, but the brush and trees had thinned. There was nothing that looked even slightly edible . . . except for the frogs splashing in the water nearby and the silvery fish darting past.

  If only I could catch one of those . . . If Pa were here, he’d know what to do.

  She thought hard. Ma had once told her that Indians used spears for fishing. Would a long stick work instead? Grace searched for one with a sharp point, but most of the branches nearby were too thick, too brittle, or too willowy. Finally, she found a sturdy stick with a slightly pointed end and quickly sawed the branch against the rough bark of a tree to sharpen it as much as possible. Then Grace waded into the water a little way and stood still so she could see the fish as they swam by. But they seemed to dart away before the stick even descended. Her arm soon ached from thrusting her homemade spear down again and again.

  She was faint from hunger and getting dizzier by the minute. If she didn’t eat something soon, she was sure she’d collapse.

  If she had a net, she could probably stretch it between the rocks . . . but how could she make a net? Her skirt might work, but she had already shredded most of it for bandages. Still, she used her teeth and her good arm to tear off a remaining swathe, completely exposing her buckskin breeches with their shredded knees.

  After stretching the fabric between two rocks, Grace weighed down the two lower edges with heavy stones. At first the fish avoided the opening and swam past the rock on the other side. Was her shadow scaring them off? Were they afraid of the floating fabric?

  Grace forced herself to stay motionless, to become as still as the rocks. Her back cramped but she remained in position, hunched over, clenching the top ends of the fabric.

  Her arm, now bleeding profusely from the exertion, sent sparks of pain shooting through the left half of her body — but finally one fish broke off from the school and headed be
tween the rocks.

  In one quick motion, Grace scooped the fabric around the slippery, wriggling fish. She almost lost it, but at last, with all four corners gathered, she held the dripping, thrashing bundle away from her body and stumbled up the bank. She needed to start a fire.

  “I think I know how Pa did this . . .” she muttered.

  She laid the fish on the ground and gathered a pile of dried grass and broken twigs, then found a piece of sagebrush with a point on one end and a branch that had split partway open. After inserting the point into the opening, she twirled the sagebrush between her hands. Pa always made this look so easy. He would twirl one stick against the other, and before you knew it, he had created enough friction that smoke started forming in tendrils. Then he would add the dried buffalo grass until whoosh — it caught.

  But Grace had no such luck.

  After what felt like hours, she gave up. Her fingers were stiff and cramped, and her drenched bandage did almost nothing now to staunch the flow of blood. The fish had long ago stopped flopping. She stared at it. Could she eat it uncooked? Ugh. But if animals ate raw fish, she could too — couldn’t she?

  Using a sharp stone, she scraped off the scales and split it open. Then she closed her eyes and lifted the fish to her lips. She could barely choke down the rubbery, slimy flesh, but hunger pangs urged her on.

  When she had eaten as much as she could stomach, she wrapped the rest in the fabric and called to Bullet. They needed to move ahead if they were to have any hope of finding Hale and his gang.

  * * *

  After spending hours plodding uphill with Bullet hobbling by her side, Grace had another night of restless sleep that was punctuated by nightmares. She huddled under a pile of dirt and leaves to ward off the frigid night air and woke to another meal of raw, stinking fish. When the meat was gone, she resorted to sucking desperately on its bones.

  As they continued their journey that day, trudging through the undergrowth and stumbling over stones, Grace cradled her throbbing arm close to her body. Both her and Bullet’s bandages stuck to their dried blood. Sipping water silenced Grace’s constant hunger pangs only temporarily.