Across the Sweet Grass Hills

by Gail L. Jenner

  “A body’s gotta plow with the horses he’s got,” mused Scott. That included taking when the taking was good. “No sense in getting winded about a foolhardy preacher and his purty daughter,” he said to his horse. Besides, the preacher was as good as dead and if the Blackfeet found her, she had to know it was her own damn fault. She’d either live or die.

  “Cause there ain’t nothin’ worth tamin’ in this wilder­ness,” laughed Scott, “only outlaws, Injuns, and fools.”

  ****

  Liza struggled to her feet, confused by the landscape. She had run a great distance, but in what direction? The loom­ing mountains were her only landmark, while the rolling plain was deceptive—and dangerous.

  What a fool she’d been to trust a perfect stranger—yes, the perfect stranger. He’d been what she had hoped for: a sol­dier, a white man.

  Oh, if only she’d not doubted Red Eagle. Red Eagle. His name was like vinegar to a swollen tongue. What a fool she had been.

  By afternoon, Liza knew she had traveled the same paths over and over. One ravine had rolled into another, and she had wandered from stream to rivulet, hoping to spot the familiar line of trees that signaled the campsite. But if she did­n’t find camp soon, her father would not survive. He needed water, he needed tending, and perhaps he had even stirred to discover himself alone!

  Turning her face to the sun, which had long passed its zenith, she spun around and considered her choices once more. She swore camp had been east and south of here.

  With nothing else to trust, she had to rely on that instinct.

  She set off at a good pace, keeping the Rockies behind her right shoulder. Liza sang as she walked, refusing to weaken and give in to her fear. Father needed her.

  Without stumbling, she followed the raised contours of the grasslands; it was as if her feet directed her steps. Finally, she recognized the pretzel-shaped ribbon of water and she ran to the cold water, letting it eddy around her toes. She sat down on a flat wide rock and let the water soak her hot, dry legs while she scooped up water to drink. It didn’t matter that the water ran down her face or her dress was wet to the hips—it was as if she could breathe again.

  As she scooped up another handful of water, she spotted a small bush. There were several patches of dark berries and she decided to pick some. The first handful was sour and she spit the pulp out after trying to suck the berries’ juice. Four smaller bunches were sweet and juicy.

  Revived, Liza resumed her march across the open land, growing more anxious about her father. Several times she star­tled birds and prairie dogs, but they skittered away each time she approached them. She wondered what else might be under the ground waiting or watching. If only she had paid more attention to the things Giles had said, details she had consid­ered irrelevant a week ago.

  The afternoon shadows stretched across the yellow hori­zon as Liza approached a ridge. Rising up out of the grassland, she thought it might give her a bird’s eye view of the area. Hopefully she hadn’t traveled in another circle.

  She climbed slowly to the top, her bare feet toughened by all the walking. She peered across the distance and quickly spotted the copse of cottonwoods hugging the tiny stream and there, not much farther, was the abandoned wagon.

  She dashed down the embankment; grabbing the folds of her skirt, she slipped in the loose silt, lost balance, and tum­bled to the bottom of the ravine. As she caught her breath and stumbled to her feet, she slapped her grimy hands against her dress.

  “Papa!” she cried as she ran to him, dropping to her knees. “Thank God you are still alive.” Her words were lost in the ragged breathing she fought to control, and as the tears came, Liza did not stop them.

  Efficiently she tended him, changing bandages and cleaning him as best she could. Then she moistened a small towel and applied it to his lips, letting water run into his mouth. She bathed him, too, talking to him, all the while, about her foolishness. It didn’t matter that Will Scott had abandoned them, at least for the moment. It was enough that she had found her father and that they were together. She would not leave him again, and if it was the last thing she managed to do on this earth, she would keep him alive.

  She would keep them both alive!

  Finally, as the sun cast its amber spray across the west­ern horizon, Liza crawled alongside her father and curled up next to his ribs. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift. If only she knew what tomorrow would bring. If only...

  Reminding herself that regret was wasted, she pushed aside the image of Red Eagle, his dark eyes studying her care­fully, his mouth turned down in a frown. She had ignored the goodness there, the kindness—

  Well, like this fleeting image, he was a phantom now, his goodness an illusion. It was time to forget.

  CHAPTER 6

  The clip-clop of an approaching horse startled Red Eagle. He had run for nearly two days, covering many miles and had just now stopped to rest on a ledge overlooking the ravine below. He hadn’t realized anyone was following him. Picking up his leather pouch, he quietly slipped behind a thick wall of brush and waited.

  The horse came up the ridge slowly. Had the rider already spotted him? Red Eagle pressed his body closer to the rock, letting the brush shield him. The animal finally came into view and he recognized the dirty blue uniform and the long Henry immediately.

  Red Eagle felt the stab of anger and fought to keep his hands steady and mind clear. Where was Liza? Where was her father?

  The heat of his blood filled his face. What a fool he’d been to leave Liza to the mercy of this man. Why hadn’t he waited to be sure she was all right?

  Lacing his fingers around the butt of his long knife, Red Eagle knew what he had to do. He stepped forward boldly, but as he did, several dry twigs cracked under his feet. He hesitated, but it was too late.

  Blue eyes flashed wickedly as Private Will Scott slipped off his horse and drew a pistol. “Come on out,” he ordered, his cold glance darting left to right. “Hands above yer head!”

  Red Eagle held his breath trying to remain calm. There was enough cover to shield him, but his curled fingers shook as he resisted the desire to plunge through the dense brush. He had never killed a man before, but he’d hunted enough panthers and bear to know the heat of passion that rose in a man moving against his prey. He felt like a mountain lion, waiting—

  Private Scott moved so close that every line of his face was visible, his crooked teeth, pocked cheeks and stubble chin. The soldier’s blue eyes were narrowed and cold with hate. Time stood still as Red Eagle watched and weighed the soldier’s every movement. When he turned, Red Eagle sprang.

  Instinctively, his hands closed around the startled man’s throat. The two men tumbled over and over, crashing through the brush, then down the ragged slope of a rocky ledge. The sol­dier was stronger than Red Eagle had thought and, still holding the pistol in his right hand, he had the advantage.

  When the two duelers crashed into a wall of rock, Red Eagle grabbed for the gun. It flipped end over end into a narrow crevice below them. Red Eagle scrambled to retrieve it, but Scott drove his boot into Red Eagle’s groin, sending him against the granite surface. He then leaped over Red Eagle and reached for the gun.

  But Red Eagle regained his foothold and kicked Scott between the legs. It was a well-placed kick and the soldier dou­bled over, dropping the gun again. Red Eagle knew he had the advantage now and so did Scott. Enraged, teeth bared and nos­trils flaring, the trooper howled and cursed, but Red Eagle had already seized the gun and jumped clear of the escarpment.

  The soldier climbed after him, his fists flailing wildly as he tried to cover the distance between them. Red Eagle spun around and faced him, gun level and cocked, his eyes never leaving the blue-eyed man’s wild face. Simultaneously, Scott lunged at Red Eagle, wrapping both hands around the butt of the gun. They tumbled over another ledge and Red Eagle felt the barrel against his ribs. He grimaced as he wriggled out of Scott’s grasp, but before he could get away the blast sent him s
piraling backward.

  The flash of pain was like a branding iron, hot and sear­ing. Red Eagle erupted, ignoring the blood that seeped down his side and leg. With the gun still in his hands, he flew at the soldier, sending him crashing against the hard earth.

  Panting, he rushed again before Scott could even scram­ble to his feet. This time the gun flew out of his hands and he pounced on top of the bewildered soldier. Every nerve in his body quivered as his fists pounded Scott’s face.

  Scott tried to fight back but Red Eagle would not let up. Blood ran from the soldier’s nose and mouth and he growled, like a she-wolf, but could not free himself from Red Eagle’s blows.

  In a final motion, Red Eagle drew his long knife. “Liza?” he growled, pressing the blade’s tip into the soft flesh of the man’s throat. “Where is Liza? And her father?”

  “What do you care?” returned the soldier, gritting his teeth. Red Eagle drove the point in further. The man’s racing heart throbbed against the blade but he never took his swollen eyes off Red Eagle.

  “Liza?” growled Red Eagle again.

  “The girl?” said Will Scott, a snicker passing over his blood-smeared face.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “You filthy breed,” snarled Scott. “I’ll see you in hell.”

  “Not before you tell me what you did with Liza—”

  “Well, now,” grinned Scott suddenly, running his bloody tongue over his battered, bloody mouth. “I give her a poke. An’ she liked it. She liked it so much, I poked her again n’ again.”

  Red Eagle plunged the knife through Will Scott’s throat. He closed his eyes to the man’s hideous expression, startled by the bulging eyes and sputtering sounds. He loosened his grip for a moment, watching as the knife wallowed in the blood bubbling up around it then he rolled away.

  Finally, as blood encircled the soldier’s vacant face, Red Eagle struggled to his feet and stumbled down to a shallow stream that cut across a narrow coulee. He hesitated as he peered down into the water. It sparkled, clean and fresh.

  He dropped to his knees and splashed water across his sweat-soaked face. The water ran down his neck and across his buckskin shirt. As he dragged the bloody blade through the water, his attention fixed on the pink-tinged rivulet.

  Red Eagle looked down at his side. The pain was intense and as he studied it, bloody, gaping flesh surprised him. He fingered it, remembering how he had removed Liza’s father’s bullet, then grimaced as his fingers probed the wound deeper.

  Finally he felt it.

  It didn’t take long to cut the lead out, and he cried out only once, just as the tip of the blade pried it free.

  Before fainting, he wrapped the palm of his hand over the wound.

  ****

  The sound shattered the stillness of the night. Terrified, Liza’s eyes flew open and she pulled herself to a sitting position.

  A minute later, it came again, only louder. Liza caught the edge of her blankets with her fingers. This time she would not run. She would die here, next to her father. Trembling, she reached for his limp hand.

  The low rumbling moved closer. Liza squinted, breath­ing rapidly, searching the night for signs of storms. There were none. Only a strange, oblong moon and a sky sprinkled with sil­ver stars.

  The sound stirred closer, and the rumbling became a growl. She dug under her pillow for her mother’s six-shot Colt. Was it loaded? She scrambled to her feet as she tried to remem­ber where Father had hidden the boxes of ammunition. God forbid that Will Scott or the thieves had returned.

  “Who’s out there?” Liza hollered. There were no more than a handful of extra cartridges. “Come out where I can see you!”

  The only reply was the rustle of prairie grass stirred by wind or foot. Only there was no wind. Was it Red Eagle? Or Will Scott?

  “Who is it? Why are you trying to scare me?” Liza’s hands shook and her right forearm began to ache from squeezing the pistol grip so tightly.

  “Is it you, Private Scott? Is it? If so, you better move ’cause I’m going to fill you with lead!” But her hands continued to shake and her knees grew weak. “Dear God,” she whispered, “if there was ever a time to work a miracle, it’s now. Please!”

  Just then she recognized the sound. It was a cough. A cough and a growl.

  A bear.

  Liza bit her lip to keep from screaming.

  The beast was moving clumsily now across the stream and she knew the bear was moving toward them, though noth­ing more than its small, glittering eyes and pale silhouette were visible.

  She had no time to think. Rather, without aiming at all, Liza raised the pistol and jerked the hammer back. Her finger shook against the trigger.

  “Wh-wham!” The whistle pierced the ebony cloud of night. Stumbling backward, she steadied herself. Her ears hummed from the bullet’s explosion but carefully, evenly, she pulled the hammer back again. This time she did not waver.

  A second wh-wham, more ear-splitting than the first, cracked like lightning, and there was a horrible cry. She had hit the bear squarely this time, for it wailed and began to crash through the grass.

  Immediately Liza fired a third and fourth time, aiming as high and as straight as she could, and her heart pounded as the screeching animal seemed to stumble and fall. Acrid gunpow­der filled her mouth and her eyes burned from the smoke.

  With one more pull, she fired a fifth time and the shot was followed by a shriek of pain and a heavy thud. She fired again but the gun clicked.

  She was out of cartridges and had no idea how to load the cylinder.

  The bear’s terrible cries continued for several minutes, then turned to groans and finally ceased. Liza remained frozen, unable to move or release her hold on the gun. She listened for any sounds of rustling grass.

  There were none.

  But Liza continued to tremble, waiting for the howls to begin again. Was the bear really dead? What if there was anoth­er one out there, waiting?

  A long, heavy silence passed before Liza dropped to her knees with the empty gun. She looked at it, wondering if she had indeed managed to do the impossible. The unthinkable. She, Elizabeth Ralston had killed a bear!

  Taking a deliberate breath, she got to her feet and returned to camp and her father. Her wobbly legs could hardly hold her, and her head still pounded from the deafening roar of the bullets. But she was safe and so was her father. She pressed her lips to his cheek and whispered, “We’ll be all right.”

  At least for now.

  He seemed to stir at her touch and she waited, breath­lessly. “Oh, Papa! Can you hear me?” She leaned closer again, left hand against his chest, eyes on his face. It had to be, she thought, it just had to be!

  “Listen to me, Papa. I’m here. And we’re going to be all right. Don’t you worry, not about me, not about you! You always said Robert Ralston didn’t raise his children to be weaklings! And you’d have been proud of me tonight. But rest now, Papa.”

  Touching his face once more to reassure herself that he was actually breathing easier, she reloaded the pistol and slipped it between their beds. Exhaling, she laid down beside him, still trembling from the bear encounter.

  How long she lay there staring up at the night sky, she did not know. A hint of lavender and gold stretched across the east­ern horizon when she finally closed her eyes.

  ****

  Red Eagle stirred. Looking up, he realized night had overtaken him. Even now his side burned and his body, stiff from laying in one spot for so long, tingled as he tried to move. He ignored the body that lay not far away and looked for the man’s horse. It was nowhere in sight.

  He frowned. A horse would have made all the difference. He glanced back at the dead soldier. Let the crows and the coy­otes find him, he thought.

  But his own wound was more painful than he wanted to admit, even though it was a simple one. Slipping off his medi­cine pouch, he set to work pulling out an assortment of small­er parfleches, each holding his mother’s special pla
nts. As he made a poultice, his heart was heavy with worry, and his mind reeled with fear.

  Was Liza still alive? He had to know. He had to go back— Suddenly lightheaded, he hesitated before standing up. He had such a long way to go.

  He placed one foot in front of the other, moving careful­ly and ignoring the spells of dizziness that washed over him. Would he find Liza before it was too late?

  CHAPTER 7

  Liza opened her eyes slowly. Her head ached as if she’d suffered a blow. She rose slowly, trying not to move hastily. She reached out for her father, but pulled back when she realized his body was cool and clammy in spite of the lay­ers of bedding.

  Ignoring her head, she pushed him onto his back. She pressed her ear to his chest and groaned. What had happened between last night and this morning? “Oh, Papa, what can I do? I’m no surgeon. I’m not even a good nurse.” She touched her fingers to his sweaty brow, then stroked his cheek and forehead. “If only Mother were here. She would know what to do.” Mother had helped many of Father’s parishioners who fell ill and could not afford a doctor.

  In frustration, Liza took up her rags and dipped them into the bucket of yesterday’s water. She washed her father down gently, whispering all the while. “Perhaps you’ve sweat out the fever. I remember Mother saying that a body had to sweat before a fever broke. Maybe that means you’re healing.”

  She dribbled water over his chapped lips. “Drink this, if you can,” she said. “Your body needs water, even if it’s not much.”

  Finishing, she stood up and looked around. Her head still throbbed and her ears rang. But she was grateful; they had both survived another night. They had even survived a possible bear attack.

  She looked for the bear eagerly. Had she really killed it? She couldn’t remember—exactly. There had been smoke. Powder burns. Terrifying cries. Ringing ears and burning throat. Throbbing arms and fingers.

  She glanced down at her fingers. Smudges of black still stained the thumbs and right forefinger. Amazed, Liza shook her head. She had only fired a gun a few times back in St. Louis, a long time ago; she recalled that the first time, her brothers tried to convince her that a rifle wouldn’t kick.