by Lynn Landes
Grabbing the canteen, she pours a small amount of water over her leg. Pain shoots through her and she pours more water over the wound to wash away bits of cotton and blood. The bullet sliced through her upper thigh. Blood is streaming down her leg, and she is trembling with cold and exhaustion.
How many times has she had to patch up her own wounds? Pushing the thought away she removes her shirt and slices it up to pad the wound. Next, she rips long strips to use for securing the bandage and builds up the courage to sew the gash on her leg. Blood will draw predators, and with the wolf around she doesn’t want to take any chances.
“You can do this. Harris has sewn you up on more than one occasion.” With shaking hands, she threads the needle and pales as she looks at the five-inch wound. It must be done, or the ride on the horse will cause it to reopen. The first stitch is the worst as she bites down hard on a piece of wood to keep from screaming. She sews quickly and thinks about tomorrow. Kimani is oblivious to the tears rolling down her cheeks. Survival is on her mind and if she can ride fast, the River’s land is a two-day journey from east the bottom of Cathedral Peak. Tying the knots, she realizes it will take longer to get to the ranch itself. What if they are chasing her? She could double back and try to slow anyone down?
Pressing the dirty shirt against the wound, she wipes away the blood and rinses it with water before she digs for the clean clothes. She finds, long socks, which she quickly pulls on her cold cut feet. Next a massive five button shirt which she gladly pulls on. It is cotton and thin, but it will have to do. She slips the over shirt on and closes up the wool cloth with wooden buttons trying not to laugh at how absurd she must look. She winces when she tugs on the large coarse fabric pants and looks for a way to secure them, looking around she finds a strand of rope. With it slid through the belt loops on the pants, and a couple of knots they will manage to stay on. Her leg is throbbing with the effort, she sits down near the small fire, it’s time to plan. If these trackers are anything like the Indian trackers, she’s in deep trouble. Waiting until tomorrow morning is no longer an option. Tonight, she will leave for the River’s Ranch, but first, she will leave them a message, warning them to leave her alone. Picking up the roll of baling wire she gets started, ignoring the chills and headache settling into her body. Signs of infection pulses through her body, but she has no time to stop and worry about it.
Two hours later she has set the trap and gone through the second soldier’s saddlebags, taking any supplies she could carry. The ammo could come in handy as will his rifle. Kimani feeds the horses and decides the second horse could be used as a distraction.
“Sorry boy, but I need you to draw them in.” She leaves him tied inside the ledge to the stake in the ground and rides down the shallowest part of the river, not wanting to leave any horse tracks behind.
Chapter 7
The Snake River was aptly named as it snakes around the base of the mountains leaving little room to cross. On the other side is sheer cliff face jutting up into the darkened sky. The trackers trot along the river following the curve of the water until they come to a spot with a patch of trees on the other side of the river bed.
“Brother, the tracks end at the river,” Evan Newton says quietly.
Craig jumps down and glances down the icy river bank. “This would be the best spot to cross, but why would she cross at all?” He squats and wipes at the snow with his hands finding the frozen track he is looking for. The prints are covered by fresh snow, but they easily wipe that off.
“Barclay said she was injured, maybe she stopped to rest,” Evan suggests.
“True, and look, blood and horse prints.” Craig pushes his hand into the horse print, “This is a few hours old.”
“Look Brother, smoke,” Evan points.
Craig remounts his horse and glances across the river. Large pine trees obscure the view, but the smoke is a dead giveaway.
“We’ll split up, Evan. You go straight through the trees, and I will circle around on foot,” Craig suggests.
“It can’t go back far. That’s a massive cliff behind these trees. She’s stuck unless she can climb like a spider,” Evan laughs softly.
“Let’s go look,” Craig kicks his mount and plunges into the icy water, thankful that the snow has finally stopped. He crosses quickly and turns his mount upstream. The river winds around the corner of the cliff face on the right, not leaving enough room for his horse to cross to, he can only go to the left.
Evan follows, crossing the river he jumps down and ropes his horse to a tree. He draws his pistol and disappears into the snow-covered pines. The snow crunches quietly under his boots as he sneaks quietly through the pines and stops behind a large tree.
Craig rides along the river’s edge following it down before he realizes what he’s seeing. Fresh tracks leading from the trees to the river.
Evan sets off a buried trip wire, without even realizing it was there. He was so focused on sneaking up on the man sitting at the large fire, that he didn’t look down. The moment he triggered it, the snare snaps tight around his foot, and his body jerks up into the air feet first. He screams, hanging upside down, from the pain in his leg and foot. Evan yells in pain. “Brother!”
Craig kicks his horse, turning around and races into the trees “Yah!” He shouts. A second scream has him kicking the horse harder. The horse slows coming to a fallen log, he kicks the horse again to jump over it, only realizing at the last second his mistake. His horse’s front legs sink into a hidden hole and break, throwing the man forward over the screaming horse’s shoulder. They skid forward rolling straight into the trap Kimani had laid.
Horse and man roll tumbling into a maze of baling wire meant for trapping prey. The combined weight of man and beast rips the staked wire from the ground and binds the two bodies together in a tangle of wire and sticks. His face is torn from the metal and branches while the wind is knocked from his body by the impact.
Kimani crossed the river upstream and doubled back after tying off her horse. Craig is struggling wildly inside the wire along-side the kicking horse, and she can’t help but laugh at him as the hooves strike him repeatedly. He freezes when she approaches and glares at her.
“Your friend is busy...” she growls at him.
“My brother!” Craig screams at her and struggles again.
Kimani ignores him and walks around to the panting and whimpering horse, whispering, “I’m sorry.” She shoots struggling animal in the head. Turning back to the man she glares.
“You will not be so lucky. I want you to suffer.” Kimani hisses and struggles with the English word. English is not her first language, but her father made sure she could speak it. Kimani walks back around the animal to glare at Craig, trembling with the temptation to shoot him and be done with it. His body is twisted in a strange position with his face pressed up tightly against the wire and his arms pinned oddly behind his back. The horse is laying on one of his legs and the urge to laugh is surprising.
“Does it pain you?” She asks smiling at the man as he glares at her.
“I’m not going to kill you, girl. Only make you wish for the swift death we gave your tribe!” Craig threatens.
“You’ve killed enough!” Lifting the pistol, she is startled when Evan bounds through the trees shrieking and surprising her. The snare must’ve broken! Instinct has her swinging the gun and pulling the trigger at the same instant. Clutching his stomach, Evan falls backward, while his brother rages, and screams, desperate to get to him.
“Evan!!!
Kimani backs away in horror. Killing him wasn’t part of the plan, was it? She wasn’t really going to kill Craig, just question him.
“Brother, I’m shot!” Evan gasps and struggles to sit up on his knees.
Kimani flees, spinning she leaps through the trees and grabs the reins of the horse they rode in on. Struggling to break the reins free, she panics when she hears the man shouting for his brother. Leaving the horse, she lurches into the water and crosses at the sh
allowest point. Her own horse is tied further downstream, hidden in a group of trees.
Dragging herself from the river she mounts her horse and kicks him into a run., desperate to be free of this area. “The trackers will not be a problem anymore, ride Kimani!” she orders. “Get to the ranch,” she says as pain screams through her body. The past hours and injuries are catching up to her.
“Just ride,” she whimpers.
Chapter 8
“Brother!” Evan gasps and stares down at the blood seeping out of the wound in his stomach.
“It’s gonna be alright, Evan. I’m coming.” Craig tries to move his leg only to realize the horse is laying on top of it. “Uggh,” he groans and pulls shoving at the beast with his free leg, finally managing to break his leg free of the twisted metal.
Evan stares at his brother and begins to crawl towards him. “I’m coming, brother,” he gasps and begins the slow crawl.
Craig struggles to move, he is wrapped in the wire tight and he can’t feel his right hand. “Evan! I need the cutters from the saddle. I can’t move my hands!”
“Okay, brother,” he coughs and looks at Craig. The wire is pushing tightly into his face, causing lacerations and his hands are twisted behind his back. “Stay still, brother, you’re making it worse.”
He reaches into the dead horse’s saddle and digs for the tools that every soldier carries. Success! A small bag of tools rolled up in canvas. Evan pulls it free from the wire and unrolls it on the snowy ground before doubling over and gasping in pain.
“Burns!” He screams. Grabbing the cutters, he shoves them through the wire before he blacks out on the ground beside his brother.
“Evan! No! I’m coming!” Rage has him roaring out in the night.
Kimani hears the screams coming from behind her and kicks her mount harder, pushing him to go as far and fast as she can, while tears stream down her face. Killing a man, even a murderer is not something she planned.
The snow has stopped, at least she can ride longer. Chilled to the bone, she ignores the fever starting to rage in her body and doesn’t look back. “Put a couple hours in between you and them, Kimani,” she whispers and frowns.
“Kimani is dead, Vanessa Schmidt is what he said they called me,” she whimpers and pulls her borrowed coat closer around her body. “Yes, Vanessa Schmidt survived the massacre, she can make it to the ranch.”
Baling wire is made to be strong, and this is no exception. Craig feels the wire slicing into his face, and under one side of his nose and decides instead of pushing against the horse to lift it, he twists. This relieves the pressure on his arms and allows him to pull one free. Blood drips into the snow around the horse, and Craig strains to reach the pliers.
“Shit! Evan, wake up! Brother, I need your help, I can’t reach the cutters!
Evan groans and rolls over. “Comin’,” he clutches his stomach with bloody hands and crawls over to his brother. He leans against the horse and starts laughing when he looks at Craig.
“Witch, got us good, didn’t she, Brother?” Evan shoves a trembling hand through the wire and starts snipping.
“Funny. Cut my face out first,” Craig demands.
Evan leans away and vomits in the snow. Blood continues pumping out of his wound, but through his moans of pain, Evan doesn’t stop working to free his brother. Every snip releases pressure, and soon Craig can cut the wire himself.
“Just rest brother, I’ll be free soon.”
“Sorry, brother. Can’t… wait.” Evan falls forward and blacks out in the snow.
Craig weeps as he tears at the wires. “No, Evan, I’m coming…” he roars in agony.
An hour later he pushes his twisted and torn body from the wire womb. Breaking free, he rushes to Evan and lifts him up, to carry him to the cave. After tending to his wound, he covers him with a blanket from the horse.
Craig roars at the woman fleeing through the night. “Run, girlie. I’m gonna find you and make you wish you died with your family.”
Chapter 9
Dr. Harris Rivers washes his blood-stained hands in a basin while he snaps at his assistant. “Bandage up the patient, I’m headed back the barracks.” The door flings open, and his hand goes to the pistol always at his side, even as he turns.
Frigid air and snow blow inside and the door slams against the wall as a filthy soldier drags in a new patient.
“One more Doc,” he drops the patient into a chair and props him against the wall before turning to glare at him.
Harris sighs and relaxes his stance before staring at the sick man slumped against the wall. His shallow breathing, grey skin and blood-stained bandages on both arms say it all.
“What happened to him?” Harris narrows his silver eyes and moves closer to evaluate the patient.
“Got himself shot, Doc,” the man replies and spits on the floor.
“Obviously,” Harris glares at him, “Where are they all coming from?”
“Don’t see why that matters, Doc.” The soldier glances around nervously, “You just need to patch him up.”
Harris glares at the smart-ass soldier, “How long ago?” He squats down and pushes the man’s head back gently and is not shocked to find him burning up with fever. He lifts his eyelid to check his pupils. “Anyone tend to the wounds? Did the bullets pass through?”
“Dang, Doc. Slow down. One passed through, one got stuck in the bone.” He edges toward the door and Harris is thankful for the fresh air as it washes the room clean of the stench.
“You don’t look like any doctor I’ve seen afore?” The man says taking stock of Harris’s size and appearance. “More like a gunslinger,” he snaps.
Harris picks up the young man, ignoring the comments, he’s heard it all before. At six foot two, two hundred pounds he’s a large man. He lifts the patient and carries him to his wooden exam table in the center of the room, placing him gently on the table.
“How long has he had a fever?” He picks up a scalpel and cuts open the man’s tattered, filthy shirt. Instantly the scent of rotten flesh and infection wafts out.
“Damn,” Harris snarls, realizing that the wounds were left to fester. Before he can turn around the door slams, leaving him to deal with the dying man. As gently as he can, he pulls the shirt off and tosses it on the floor.
During the war, he treated many gunshots and wounds. Despite the medical training he’d received, nothing could have prepared him for the volume of injuries he would see. Anger rushes through him. They sent a telegram requesting his help at the Fort a few days ago to deal with the rise in attacks between the Indians and Soldiers. Fort Steele is not a bad place to be. It’s only a two-day ride to the Fort from the River’s Ranch. It was established ten years ago to protect workers constructing the railroad from Indian attacks. Now Cattlemen, sheepherders, and loggers frequently stop. Merchant shops have been built, along with a school, church, saloons, even a bar. It has ammunition storage, barracks and a hotel for those traveling through.
“Steven,” he yells for his assistant. “We have another one. Bring water.”
Steven rushes inside from a back room where patients are kept who need overnight care. The General made sure the fort was equipped with top-notch medical supplies including a cabin to be used for a Doctor’s office. It is a three-bedroom log cabin structure with a door and two windows, which allows one doctor to sleep in the cabin if needed.
“Another one? What’ve we got?”
“Double gunshots. Let’s wash the arm first.”
Steven pours water into a clean basin, and they pour it over the arm, washing away the filth. It reveals swelling and striations rippling out from the wound. Harris prods, and infection oozes out, but he sighs in relief when they realize the bullet passed through the outer edge of the bicep.
“Tell me how you would proceed with the patient?”
Steven had recently completed his sixteen-week training at the Linde Medical University in Chicago. He is apprenticing at Fort Laramie. He has been en
thusiastic and competent during his stay.
“Looks infected, but we can clean that up. It looks to have clotted properly. I’m more worried that he isn’t awake.” Steve checks his pulse while Harris pours water over the second wound.
“Exactly what I was think…”
A guttural scream erupts from the patient, and his eyes fly open wide as he swings his now clean arm. “Run!”
They push him back onto the bed, and Harris tries to calm him, “Easy, now! You’re safe.”
Frantic, fevered eyes glare at him as the fight drains from him. He starts weeping, “No, no, …” he grabs Harris arm, “You have to help her!”
“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” he glances up at Steven. “Morphine,” he snaps, and Steve rushes to the medicine cabinet.
“Not the babies,” he moans and thrashes on the table.
“What’s your name,” Harris asks as he rushes to the side table and pours another bowl of water.
“Simon,” he moans, “Where am I?” he asks hoarsely. His entire body is twitching as the infection fights through his system.
“Fort Steele, who shot you, Simon?”
“General Barclay,” he replies, and his eyes fly open wide with images.
“Simon, I have to clean your wound,” Harris hides his surprise at the General’s name. “It’s going to hurt.”
“I understand, I deserve it…” Simon gasps as the water rushes over the shoulder drowning the other wound and table beneath him. It is built with a trough beneath to catch whatever liquid might run down from the patients. The bullet entered below the clavicle and lodged into a bone. Now, swollen, purple, green and maggot filled, it is clearly infected. Even though it missed an artery the infection is too far gone. The jarring has caused it to rip open and seep more blood. Bruises litter his body as if he’d been beaten.
