Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  “Down you go, Delia,” he said.

  “Don’t you leave me!”

  “I won’t.”

  She sat on the rocky edge and slipped into the gap. Her body fell down through the dry leaves coming to rest in the soft lining. She heard his body rustling along as he descended and burrowed toward the sound.

  Her fingers touched him, gripping tight to his arm.

  “How far?” she whispered.

  “Ten, twelve feet. Quiet now, they’re coming.”

  The warriors’ screams pierced the air as they charged up and over the rocks above them. If they found them here, there would be no escape. They were trapped in this narrow grave.

  The men were right above her now. She pressed her face to his shoulder and held her breath.

  Soon the cries came from a greater distance. She strained to hear as they faded away. A hiccup escaped her lips. He pressed his hand across her lips, muttering a curse.

  She listened as his heartbeat began to slow, taking comfort from the steady rhythm. Her legs trembled from the run up the rock and her foot pulsed like a sore tooth. Finally her spasms ceased and his hand slid away from her mouth.

  She tried to wait for him to speak first, but the minutes dragged by with no sound from above.

  “Now what?” she whispered.

  With her ear pressed to his chest, she felt his whispered words vibrate beneath her cheek. “Sit tight until nightfall.”

  Nightfall? That was hours away. She let her legs fold beneath her, crumpling to the ground. She brushed away the leaves before her face, trying to clear a space to breathe. The musty odor of rotting leaves choked her.

  He sank beside her. “Keep still. They’re close.”

  She heard them again, their voices clear as they crossed above her once more.

  His lips brushed her ear. “They’ll keep searching until dark. Hold still.”

  She pulled the neck of her dress over her face to keep the leaves from tickling her nose. She could smell her own fear. She as sat unmoving as the stone behind her.

  Back and forth the Blackfoot traveled through the hot afternoon, searching for their prey. Each time they leaped the gap she was sure an arrow or spear would descend upon them. Sweat trickled down her back. Tiny branches pricked at her skin. She stifled the urge to scratch. Why don’t they quit and go home?

  Beneath the pile of leaves, the world was dark. How would he know when evening came?

  Then she heard it. The sound of a coyote cry pierced their cavern, heralding in the night.

  The voices of their pursuers came no more.

  “I’m going up,” he said.

  “Me, too!”

  “No, Delia, stay here where it’s safe.”

  “What if you don’t come back?”

  “I’ll come back—I always come back.” There was a pause. “And if I don’t, you wait till tomorrow night and then follow the river back up to the Crow.”

  She’d never make it with her foot. If she insisted on going, she’d put him in danger.

  “All right. I’ll stay.”

  His fingers brushed her cheek and he was gone.

  Nash knew he’d abandoned her again, knew that she was most afraid of being left behind. But she was safer there, hidden in the crack in the earth. And she’d not insisted—she had let him go.

  He crept along the ridge of rock, keeping low. His moccasins whispered over the stone as he swept along.

  They had taken everything, a year’s work, all his furs, his horses, everything.

  His fingers coiled tight about the smooth wood stock of his Hawkins. Without those furs he had nothing. Worse than nothing, he’d be in debt for the traps.

  He’d get them back, every pelt, by God, he would.

  The moon was a tiny sliver in the starry sky. He was invisible.

  He climbed down the rock. This was where he’d cut loose his packhorse. Damn them!

  He smelled the air but caught no sign of their camp. The night was so dark he had to feel his way along through the blue spruce.

  He heard a soft sound, like a sigh. He sank to one knee and raised his knife against the night. His ears strained to hear. Then he saw them, warrior after warrior lying on the ground before him. He could touch the nearest man with the barrel of his rifle.

  He had nearly stepped on them.

  His heart jumped to a pounding rhythm, so loud he feared he’d wake them with the mad beat. He edged backward up the rock.

  No fire, no lookout, just fifteen warriors lying on the ground. There might be a scout. He can’t see any better than I can.

  Fifteen! That many he had seen, there might be more. Good God, he could never kill that many. Where was his horse? He had to find it.

  It would be guarded. Blackfoot never left the horses unattended. Still he might slit the man’s throat before he could sound the alarm.

  He thought of Delia, trembling in that hole in the rock. Even if he recovered his plew, what then? They’d never outrun them riding double with a loaded packhorse trailing behind.

  Damn.

  If I was alone, I’d chance it. I’d steal it all back. I’d make a run for it. But I’m not alone.

  He crept back up the mountain. The warriors hadn’t given up, or they’d be gone. They’ll be back in the morning. Should they run?

  Blackfoot were the best trackers he’d ever seen. They’d find the trail and, with us on foot, we’d have no chance.

  The crack foxed them. He’d have to hope they wouldn’t find it tomorrow, that they’d widen the search.

  He climbed up the rocks to the spot where he had left her. He almost missed it himself. This was damn good cover.

  “Delia.”

  “Nash? Oh, thank God. I prayed so hard.” Her voice was muffled. His jaw clenched in anger. He dragged her over half the Rocky Mountains and put her in danger. Despite his best efforts, he could not keep her safe. She deserved better than he could provide. She deserved to go home.

  “Move left, I’m coming down.”

  He slid off the rock and into the leaves, disappearing from the face of the earth.

  “Nash?” Her fingers touched him, as if assuring herself he was real. “I found something. Look here.”

  She guided him a few feet down the crevasse. “There’s a little niche, see?”

  He couldn’t see a damn thing, but she guided his fingers.

  “How big?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He felt around and discovered the ledge went back only three feet or so. It was long and tapered away at one end to nothing.

  “We could clear some of the leaves away in here,” she said.

  Soon they were pushing leaves aside. New ones fell in from above. He rummaged about and gathered some sticks and logs that had fallen into the cleft. These he used to hold back the wall of debris. Then they crawled into the niche. The rock was relatively flat.

  He pulled her close, letting her use his arm as a pillow. He grasped his water skin.

  “Have some water, Delia.”

  She took the bag.

  “It’s nearly gone.”

  “Have a drink. I’ll get more soon.”

  He heard the water pass her throat. She handed back the skin and he drank the last.

  “What did you see?”

  “There’s a mess of them. I couldn’t risk searching for the horses.”

  She was silent. Was she disappointed at his failure? At last she spoke.

  “Thank you.”

  “What?”

  “Thank you for not risking it, for not dying and for coming back to me.”

  He patted her shoulder.

  “I always come back.” He heard her yawn. “Best sleep now. We’re staying here until them fellers find something more interesting to do than look for us.”

  He knew the moment she fell asleep. Her body startled, as if falling, and then relaxed. Her breathing changed to a slow, steady draw. He sighed and smelled the sweet musty odor of dry leaves. He closed hi
s eyes and drifted away as well.

  The sound of the warrior’s voices brought him awake. He sat up and slammed his head on the rocky ledge above him. He muttered a curse. Delia startled beside him. He gripped his hand tight over her mouth and waited until she nodded. She was awake now and had time to remember. He swept his fingers over his brow and felt a lump rising there.

  His fingers slid away. He pressed his lips to her ear.

  “Quiet now, they’re back.”

  The voices receded. He stretched a bit. His body was stiff as the barrel of his rifle. The muscles of his back ached to bend. The rustling would give them away. He had to stay put.

  Her breath fanned his cheek. Again he vowed to get her out of here. I’ll see her safe, so help me.

  Suddenly he realized something. He’d told her to stay and she’d done it.

  “They’re gone,” she whispered.

  “Not for long.”

  All morning they heard the men calling above them. They crossed near many times. Finally it seemed they gave up.

  He waited.

  No sound reached him.

  “I’m going to have a look,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Delia—”

  “Thomas, you can’t leave me down here again, not again.”

  “Me first, then,” he said.

  She slid off the ledge. He heard her stifle a groan, but not one word of complaint escaped her lips. He crawled forward.

  “Damnation,” he said. Every muscle seemed to have shortened. Climbing up was difficult now. His body was weak from lack of food and water.

  His head popped up from the leaves like a chipmunk emerging in springtime.

  His head swiveled about. He saw no sign of them. He climbed up and he could see the trail below. There was no one about.

  He lay on his belly and reached into the pit.

  “Delia, grab hold.” Instantly her fingers coiled tight about his wrists. When had she grown so strong?

  He lifted her easily to the surface and held her as she steadied against him.

  “Are they gone?”

  “Maybe.”

  Together they crossed to the high rocks overlooking the valley. Far below, on the wide-open ground by the river, he saw them.

  “Bastards!” he said.

  She shook her head, but did not chastise him. Her fingers plucked dry leaves from his hair.

  They had his horse and were racing the animal against their horses. Apparently this was better sport than climbing about searching for them. Why not—they had everything but his Hawkins.

  Dear God, there was a hundred and fifty miles to go, without horse or supplies. He looked at Delia to find her whiskey eyes gazing up at him. She was frightened; he could see it there in the depths of her eyes.

  “Don’t go, Nash. There are too many. They’ll kill you.”

  “They have my horses and beaver. I got nothing left.”

  “You have your gun, your possibles bag and me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Delia, it’s well over a hundred miles to the Rendezvous.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  He threw his hat down.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you are the most talented woodsman I have ever seen, and I am the most stubborn woman you will ever meet.”

  He couldn’t keep from smiling at the determined tilt of her chin. Pride swelled with each steady beat of his heart. His scrawny cub had grown into a lioness.

  “You are that.”

  They crossed the rocky top of the hill and traveled south behind the cover of the low ridge. Late in the day they were miles downriver.

  He checked her foot before the light faded. The skin was swollen and the scab oozed in places. Considering what she’d been through, it looked damn good. He knew she’d never be able to walk the distance.

  “What do you think?” she asked, peering at her wound.

  “It’s healing up.” He released her ankle with a nod of approval, then bandaged her again.

  Game was plentiful. Bighorn sheep covered the hills and buffalo coated the river basin.

  When a pronghorn crossed their path, Nash raised his rifle then lowered it again.

  “I don’t dare risk a shot.”

  She picked juniper berries at sunset and he set his hook in a stream that flowed into the river.

  “I got one!” He pulled a lovely big trout from the water.

  “Can we cook it?”

  He looked about, fixing his eye on a rocky grove.

  “When it’s full dark, we’ll have a little fire.”

  She gathered wood. He struck his steel on the flint until the sparks caught the tinder. Carefully he blew the ember to flame. Here behind the rocks, no light would be seen. He watched the smoke curl to the night sky.

  “Pray God, they ain’t close enough to smell it,” he said.

  “Thomas, was that a prayer?” she asked.

  “Naw, I wanted you to pray for me. God won’t listen to me.”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  He wouldn’t have risked a fire, himself. He’d have eaten the thing raw. But she deserved hot, fresh fish and much more.

  Delia dropped the logs from her arms and came to rest beside the fire with a grateful sigh. He watched her reach into her bag and draw forth her journal.

  She opened the battered leather cover and flipped to an open page. Next she rummaged about until she found the stub of a pencil.

  “You writing about them Indians?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, already lost in thought.

  He didn’t know where she found the energy. They had walked all afternoon with little food. But always she found time to scribble in that book. He had not touched it again, not since the time she caught him. That was hers. He understood now. Everyone has a right to secrets. He just wondered why you’d want to write what no one was meant to see?

  The small fire lit her face and the ringlets of blond hair seemed gilded. She held the book to catch the scant light. Little twigs still clung to her head and her hair smelled like a leaf pile. Lord, she was magnificent!

  And what was he? A defeated man. He’d lost all he had in the world. Eight dollars a pelt, gone, all gone.

  He looked at her pink cheeks.

  There would be no farm.

  She turned the page.

  There would be no livestock or business.

  She raised her yellow cat eyes and smiled.

  He had nothing to offer.

  “You look dour,” she said.

  “Speak English.” His voice sounded hostile.

  Her eyebrows lifted. She stared at him for a time. “I wonder why you look so downcast.”

  “My shoe is pinching me.”

  She smiled. “You aren’t wearing shoes.” Her fingers moved and the journal snapped closed. “We have lost everything, haven’t we?”

  Everything, even his dreams.

  There were no words to express it. He nodded.

  “Then we’ll have to start again.”

  “It ain’t so simple.”

  “No, not simple.” He wondered about her sad, knowing smile. “I left my friends to come here, to start over. I lost my husband, and started over again. I came to you. We’ll start over together.”

  “I’m not you, Delia.”

  “Thomas—”

  “Please, Delia, let me be.”

  He needed time to mourn. Delia understood that. Having lost more than possessions, she knew the time necessary to grieve over all the work and struggle the Blackfoot had stolen.

  She twisted the cotton rag in the icy water. Her fingers tingled from the cold. She lowered her body to the bank, pulled off her moccasin and plunged her foot into the river. She sighed as the cool water soothed the relentless ache.

  Finally her foot was numb. She retrieved a comb from her possibles bag and worked the fine tortoiseshell teeth through her mane, removing the bits of leaf and twig before braiding her hair by feel
in the dark.

  Thomas waited until she returned to douse the fire. The coals hissed in protest then died in the watery grave.

  “Things will be better tomorrow,” she promised.

  He grunted and lay beside her on the ground. She rolled to face him, wrapping her arms about his neck, and lifted her head to kiss him. He stayed still as stone, allowing her only his cheek. He did not dip his head to touch her lips. She could see his eyes staring up at the night sky. She rested beside him, looking at the heavens.

  “It’s so lovely,” she whispered.

  “That it is.”

  She smiled and let sleep take her weary body.

  A gentle shake of her shoulder brought her instantly awake. Her gaze locked with his and the smile told her there was no danger. She sat up and stretched.

  They left the shelter of rock and began their journey without breakfast. Her stomach rumbled as they crossed the soggy bank.

  By midday the river cut through narrow canyons and they were forced to climb up the yellow cliffs to follow its course. He stood on the high rocky ledge looking at the wide river in silence. She waited at his side.

  “We’ll never make it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The Rendezvous. We’ve only come a few miles. It will take us near a month and that’s too long.”

  “Can we head for a fort?”

  “Too far—too damn far.” He held the barrel of his gun with both hands and leaned upon it as if it were a walking stick. She felt a tugging fear nibbling at her insides. Thomas was worried. They had no horses. She understood now—their survival was in serious doubt.

  “What will we do?”

  “We’ll build a raft.”

  She’d lost her ax. Below them, gentle waters rolled lazily along.

  “Do you know this river?”

  “No—but I heard that Bridger made it once. If he could do it, so can we.”

  “Who is Bridger?”

  “A trapper—one of the best. With luck, you’ll meet him in a couple weeks.”

  “Well then, let’s make a raft.”

  Bridger had made it all right, barely. Afterward, he had told the group not to bring the furs by river. He’d nearly drowned in a narrow canyon. The Indians wouldn’t even try it. They called it “Bad Pass.” Still the river was their one way out of this area and back to safety. Bridger’s raft had been made of wood. The timbers had splintered but had held.