Bride of the Wild

by Carré White

  “I’m glad.” Micah smiled. “You sew him up.” He got to his feet, stretching. “He might survive after all.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Silas smiled weakly.

  Knowing I would have to stick a needle through flesh, I cringed at the thought, but it had to be done. Micah had extracted the arrow, cleaning the wound, and now, it was my turn to be helpful. “Do I make the stitches close together or wide apart?” The gaping flesh bled, a trickle of red running down Silas’s midriff to the dirt below.

  “Sew enough to close it. Do whatever you have to.” Micah stood by the trees, staring into the ravine.

  “All right.” I gritted my teeth. “You might want more whiskey.”

  Silas grasped my hand, his fingers clamping around my wrist. “Just do it. It doesn’t matter, my dear. It can’t possibly hurt worse than having his fingers in there digging around.”

  “You’re very brave.”

  “No, I’m not. I want this taken care of so we can get out of here.”

  “Me too.” After pouring whiskey on the needle and my hands, I began the task of stitching Silas back together, working the needle from one end of the wound to the other, closing the flesh. I tied it off, cutting the thread with the scissors. “That should do it. I’ll see if there are any bandages.”

  “Tear a strip of his shirt, if you have to,” said Micah. “Wrap it around him.” He remained by the tree, eyeing the men below.

  “All right.” Fishing through the bag, I found gauze, which pleased me greatly. “He came prepared. This is perfect.”

  “That he did.” Silas took a long swig, smiling crookedly. “I’m beginning to feel better now.”

  I worked to wrap him, pressing the gauze to the wound, while tying the shirt around his belly. “That’ll have to do for now. Is this too—” Someone hollered in the ravine, the sound echoing. A burst of gunfire followed, which shattered the peace. “What’s happening?” I sprang to my feet, rushing over to Micah, who grabbed me, pushing me behind the tree.

  “Don’t let them see you!” he whispered.

  I caught a glimpse of the men below. Arrows flew at them from all directions, the Indians having trapped them in an ambush. They had waited until they neared the body to let loose a volley of arrows. I had left my rifle on the ground near Silas, and I meant to get it, but Micah stopped me.

  “Let me go! I need my weapon! We have to help them!”

  “And give away the fact that we’re up here. Then they’ll hunt us down.”

  “You won’t help them?”

  He looked grim. “It’s too late, Saffron. They’re already done.”

  “No!” I fought him, wanting to have a better look. I won this battle, standing near the edge, where I saw Butch Cashman fall, his body littered with arrows. Bryce fell as well, stumbling over rocks and splashing into the shallower part of the river, where a pool of blood floated around him. Sheriff Palmer and his deputy put up a valiant defense, hiding behind a rock and firing at will, but the enemy hid in the foliage and they could not be seen. Only their arrows came, flying with pinpoint accuracy, hitting their targets over and over.

  “Oh, my God!” I cried. They were all going to die.

  “There are too many. I wouldn’t even know where to shoot, honey. They’re all hiding in the foliage. I’m sorry.”

  “We should’ve done something! Anything! All we’re doing is watching them die!”

  “They each had multiple arrows in seconds. It was over before it began.”

  I pushed against his chest, shocked and disgusted. “Leave me alone.” I stumbled towards Silas, who continued to nurse the whiskey bottle.

  “He’s right,” he murmured. “If we had shot, it would’ve given us away. They’d know there are more survivors. We can hopefully walk outta here. Maybe.”

  Micah approached. “I’m going to make something you can lay on, so we can drag you. I don’t think you should try to walk just yet.”

  “I’m not a complete invalid,” protested Silas. “I can walk.” He tried to sit, which darkened the gauze, bringing forth fresh blood.

  “Don’t.” I pushed him back. “I’m going to help Micah. Just stay put.”

  “If you say so,” he slurred.

  A range of emotions lingered unpleasantly in my consciousness, fear and horror being the strongest. Most of the members of our team had perished. Micah had been right about not shooting, and I hadn’t seen a single Indian myself to even target them, but I felt awful all the same for not helping. Good men had died today, and it shouldn’t have happened.

  “Don’t do this, Saffron.”

  “Do what?”

  He pulled out sticks from the underbrush. “You feel guilty, but you shouldn’t. It’s each man for himself in the wilderness. Save those you can, and leave those you can’t.” Tossing the branches to the ground, he gazed at me. “We need to make a type of gurney. It has to support a man’s weight. Look for straight branches and rope. We might be able to pull the Sheriff’s bag apart and use that.”

  My shoulders slumped. “I’ll see what I can find. You can have my skirt too, if you need it.”

  He nodded soberly. “Let’s hurry. I want to get moving as soon as possible.”

  Something in his tone pierced through my guilt; our survival at the moment was in question. The urgency of the situation propelled me to dig through the sheriff’s bag, not finding rope. I used the scissors to cut strips of cloth from my skirt, tying them to the branches. Micah joined me, hastily piecing together a stretcher, which looked sturdy enough when we had completed it.

  “We need to get him,” said Micah. “We’ve already wasted enough time as it is.”

  Silas, feeling no pain from the whiskey, managed to shimmy onto the tied branches, lying back and grinning. “Nice work,” he slurred.

  “There won’t be any whiskey left for later.” Micah frowned.

  “Not to worry. I plan to be home by then.”

  Cloth had been tied to the end of the gurney, as a handhold. The crude contraption looked strange, with miss-matched branches jutting from all ends, but, as we began to walk, it held well. Micah dragged it on the ground behind him, the progress dishearteningly slow.

  “What if I helped?” We would not reach the Goldman farm today at this pace. The last thing I wanted was another night in the woods.

  “Pick up the end.” Micah nodded. “We can carry him until you’re tired.”

  I hurried to grasp the branches, lifting Silas off the ground. He felt heavy, and after walking for a while, my shoulders and arms began to ache, but we were finally making progress. “This might just be the trick.”

  The troublesome switchbacks of the trail required extra effort, the incline exhausting me. Perspiration dampened my face, while blisters formed along my fingers, but I tried to ignore them. I struggled to hold on, the sweat from my hands being slippery. We had begun to descend, the sun lifting high in the sky, revealing the onset of afternoon. Parched, I licked my dry lips, wishing for water, but there was none.

  “We should stop for a moment.” Micah and I lowered the stretcher, Silas’s head rolling back and forth. He had been asleep. “Let me see your hands.”

  “They’re fine.”

  He strode towards me, taking my hand, frowning. “You’re done now. I’ll drag him the rest of the way.”

  “But your hands look just as bad.” A flash of movement in the foliage startled me. I saw something brown, although it could have been a deer. “Micah!”

  As he turned to look, several Indians stepped onto the path and more behind us. If I had been in fear earlier, that was nothing compared to what I felt now. Tears flooded my eyes, because we had not escaped—far from it. We were going to die now.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Täm-mäh pike-e neh-tig-å-gånd,” said Micah, glancing at me. “My Ute’s a bit rusty, but I think that was about right.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, we are friends or at least that’s what
I hope it was.” He grinned tenuously, but fear lurked in his expression.

  The braves surrounded us, their eyes flashing, while one approached, pointing at my rifle. He said something angrily, waving his hand in the air.

  “Give him the weapon,” said Micah. “He wants the gun.”

  “All right.” I handed it to him, my hands trembling. “Here.” He snatched it quickly, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  “Maiku,” said Micah, smiling. “Maiku.”

  They dressed similarly in fawn-colored breechcloths with leather leggings. Their shirts were buckskin, but some went without, baring their chests. I inched closer to Micah, fearful of being shot, but if they wished to kill me, there would be nothing I could do to stop them.

  “Maiku,” said Micah again. “I know they understand me. I’ve greeted them as pleasantly as I can.” They took his weapon as well, and we stood there awkwardly with Silas at our feet, although he remained unconscious.

  A brave stepped nearer, his sandals crunching over rocks. His posture gave the impression of authority, and, as he approached, I felt a twinge of trepidation. He spoke then, his words sounding odd. To my astonishment, Micah answered, and they engaged in conversation for a few minutes, while the men stared, their expressions void.

  Micah touched my shoulder. “They won’t kill us. I’ve negotiated with them, and they’ll bring us to their chief. He will decide our fate.”

  “We have nothing to give them for trade.” Then an unsettling feeling registered. “They like to kidnap women for ransom … or worse.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself with that now, Saffron. We’re in dire straits at the moment. We’ve been granted a bit of a reprieve. Thank the Lord I learned the language a few years ago, but I’m terribly rusty. I know enough to get the gist of what they mean. I told them we were here to kill a rabid bear, and they seemed to understand that. They found the carcass earlier and followed us.”

  “I’m glad you understand them.” The brave who had spoken to Micah barked out orders, and two Indians stepped forward to grasp either end of the makeshift gurney, lifting Silas off the ground. Alarmed, I asked, “What are they doing with him?”

  “We’re going to their camp.” An Indian behind me nodded, saying something I could not understand. “Walk, Saffron. Let’s make haste. We must keep up.”

  I did not need to be told twice, hurrying to follow Micah, who walked behind the braves carrying Silas. He laid in the branches, clutching the bottle of whiskey, his head rolling from side-to-side.

  “Will they let us go?”

  “I hope so.” Micah’s arm went around my shoulder. “I still have my knife.”

  “I have one too in a pocket.”

  “Negotiating with them is our best chance of coming out alive. Try not to show fear. They respect courage far more than crying and cowering. They are a tough people, like other natives, but they’re under a great deal of pressure from the settlers. Things have not been easy for anyone. Their lands are being encroached upon and outright stolen, their people murdered. I know what happened to our group was horrendous, but they feel justified in their actions.”

  “I can’t even think about it. It’s too awful. If we survive, we’ll have to tell all those families their fathers and husbands died.” I fought tears, willing them to go away. “I never thought going after one stupid bear would be this costly.”

  “I knew it was foolhardy.”

  “Did you encounter many Indians trapping?”

  “Some, but most were friendly. It helps if you speak their language. At this point, I’m going to tell them whatever they want to hear. I’ll lie if I have to, because our welfare is all that matters to me.” His gaze skimmed over my face. “You’re all I care about, Saffron.”

  I grasped his hand, squeezing. “I can’t imagine how unhappy I’d be if anything were to happen to you.”

  “I’ll be just fine, and so will you. I won’t let anything happen.”

  I knew he had just lied, because he hadn’t any control over the situation, seeing we were now hostages, but I appreciated the bravado, and it did make me feel a smidgen better.

  We walked for another mile or so, winding down on a new path, which led to a densely wooded area. The aroma of campfire lingered in the air. As we neared, I glimpsed the first of many cone-shaped huts created with willow and covered in bark and brush. Women tended fires, wearing deerskin dresses, while men loitered, staring at us, as we passed through the small encampment. The children had stopped to stare as well, eyeing us with interest. We were taken to one of the larger wickiups, where I assumed we would meet the chief.

  I noticed a woman with messy, blonde hair sitting by a fire with other Indian women. For a moment, our eyes met, stirring something in my memory. I had stopped walking, staring at her, wondering why she seemed familiar. A hand at my back pushed me forward. Entering the wickiup, we found ourselves before an older-looking man, surrounded by stern-faced braves. He wore a headdress of feathers, his features weathered and his hands wrinkled. From the deferential way the others treated him, this must be their chief.

  The brave who had spoken with Micah began to talk, pointing at us and gesturing. The chief listened attentively, his eyes drifting over Micah and then me. Silas waited by the door, having woken earlier, gazing around in distress. He wisely said nothing, nursing the whiskey bottle, although little remained.

  Micah spoke then. This startled the chief, because his eyes had widened. I watched the older man carefully, relieved he allowed Micah to say his piece. He listened with calm resolve, and, hopefully, he was a reasonable man. A woman I assumed was his wife arrived, arranging several wooden bowls filled with edibles. She cast several glances my way, her expression bland, yet I sensed her curiosity. When she had finished, she got to her feet and left.

  Micah glanced at me. “This is Chief Quarat,” he murmured softly. “He’s going to talk to the other leaders tonight, and they’ll decide our fate. I told him we came to find the bear that’s been killing our townspeople. We aren’t here to make war or take lands. I told him we were peaceable.”

  “We are.”

  “They’re going to discuss it now. We are to leave.”

  “Where do we go?”

  “I suppose we sit outside and wait.”

  “All right.” I licked my lips. “Do you think they’ll give us water? I’m nearly dizzy I’m so thirsty.”

  “We shall see. Let’s get settled first before we make any demands.”

  “I understand,” I said feebly, the stress and exhaustion of the day left me weary.

  “Keep your chin up, Saffron. You’ve a reserve of strength in you. This is but a test of your mettle, and you shall overcome it.”

  “Yes, Micah. I hope so.”

  The brave said something, gesturing and nodding towards us. “He says we are to go now.”

  Silas, who had been listening, glanced nervously at the Indians. “What’s happening?”

  “Grab an end.” Micah reached for the gurney, waiting for me to take the other side. “We should make haste. I feel we’ve overstayed our welcome as it is.”

  My blistered fingers protested, the wounds stinging. “I’ve got it.” We lifted Silas from the ground, shuffling through the opening of the hut. The gurney had begun to fail from use, the strips of cloth tearing.

  We sat alone by a fire, not far from the chief’s wickiup, as none of the others had extended a welcome. The Indians glanced in our direction distrustfully, several braves standing guard at a distance. Micah tossed a few branches in, sitting with his arms over his knees, while saying over and over, “maiku, maiku,” while forcing a smile. He told me earlier this was a friendly greeting, but we continued to be eyed with suspicion.

  “How long until the chief decides what to do with us?”

  “I’ve no clue.”

  Silas, who had finished the bottle of whiskey, struggled to sit, grimacing with each move. “Where the hell are we?”

  “A Ute camp,” said Mic
ah.

  “Lord in heaven.” He grasped at his side. “I gotta use the privy. I wonder if they’ll let me?”

  “Can you get up?” I worried he would open the wound, but I had sewn it with care, and it should hold, unless something traumatic happened.

  “I’ll try.” He groaned, struggling to his feet. “It hurts like heck.”

  “I don’t know the protocol for this,” said Micah, looking around nervously. “If he goes too far, they might think he’s trying to escape. If he doesn’t go far enough, they’ll think he’s disrespecting their camp by urinating in it.” He shrugged. “This could be interesting.” A wry grin toyed around the edges of his mouth.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I’m too tired to care.”

  Silas, shuffled towards a bush, releasing his pants. It was rather obvious what he was doing, and no one seemed to mind in the least. I breathed a sigh of relief, because the last thing I wished for was to draw the ire of these people. Our fate rested in their hands. I sat with Micah, staring unhappily into the fire and wishing for a cup of water. A woman approached, followed by the pale-haired female I had seen earlier. I sat up straighter, determined to get a better look at her, as she was not of Indian heritage.

  The woman brought over an earth-toned urn filled with water, leaving it at our feet. She was older, her dark hair graying around the temples. Micah smiled, saying, “Tog’oiak.” This startled her, because her eyes flew wide. She answered him, their banter volleying back and forth. Her smile stunned me, as she flashed yellowed teeth. “Her name’s Skipoke,” said Micah. “She said we may drink freely. She welcomed us to camp, but warned we’re not to wander off from the fire.”

  The blonde woman remained silent, but then Skipoke turned towards her, and they exchanged a few words. The older woman left then, striding away in soft-looking moccasins.

  “She can speak English,” said Micah, gesturing towards the blonde. “This should be enlightening.”

  The woman wore a deerskin dress, her legs bare. She glanced at me, and I experienced a twinge of recognition, but I could not place it. She said something to Micah, and he answered.