Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  No response.

  She shook him again, a little harder, and he groaned softly.

  “Are you all right?” she asked dubiously. Her hand slid down his right shoulder and encountered something warm. And sticky. “No.” She shook her head, refusing to believe what she knew to be true. There was blood on her hands.

  She sat there, unmoving, while night turned to day. The rising sun painted the clouds with broad streaks of crimson and ocher. Thunder rumbled overhead, unleashing a soft, gentle rain.

  Black Wind stirred. He groaned softly as he opened his eyes.

  He muttered something that sounded very much like a curse as he sat up.

  “You look awful,” Susannah observed. He looked remarkably pale; his eyes were dark with pain.

  “I feel awful.”

  Susannah blinked at him in astonishment. “You…you speak English.”

  He nodded. “I need your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  He looked at her as if she had just asked the world’s stupidest question, which, she supposed, she had.

  “I need you to bandage my wounds.”

  “Wounds?” Plural.

  He nodded again, wincing.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He removed his coat. Susannah swallowed the bile that rose in her throat when she saw the blood leaking from his right side.

  But there had been blood on his back too. Clenching her jaw, she edged around behind him. He had been shot twice. The bullet that had caught him in the side had gone through the meaty part of his back and exited in front. Since there was no corresponding bullet hole in the front of his shoulder, she assumed the bullet was still in there somewhere. She knew what that meant. She had seen Shirley MacLaine dig a bullet out of Clint Eastwood’s shoulder in Two Mules for Sister Sarah.

  She also knew she couldn’t do it.

  Black Wind pulled the knife from its sheath and before she quite realized what he meant to do, he cut the ruffle off the hem of her nightgown and wrapped the cloth tightly around his middle to stop the bleeding.

  Then he offered the knife to her.

  Susannah shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “I cannot reach it myself.”

  “I know, but…you see…” She shook her head again. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  “Please, Su-san-nah,” he said quietly, and placed the knife in her hand.

  “But…”

  “Take it out.”

  She stared at the knife, unable to believe she was actually sitting in the rain out in the middle of nowhere, soaked to the skin, getting ready to pry a bullet out of a man’s shoulder.

  She glanced at the prayer feather he wore tied in his hair.

  Please, she thought, if there’s any magic in you at all, please send me back home where I belong.

  She waited, but nothing happened.

  “Su-san-nah, are you going to let me bleed to death?”

  His words, and the thought that he might die and leave her out there in the middle of nowhere, alone, jolted her out of her stupor.

  Sitting behind him, her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she lifted the knife. “If Shirley MacLaine could do it, so can I,” she muttered.

  The next few minutes were the most tense of her entire life. His skin was slick with rain—rain that ran red with his blood. She thanked God that the bullet wasn’t embedded too deeply, that, after three nerve-wracking tries, she managed to dislodge it.

  She tore a strip of cloth from her nightgown and made a square, which she pressed over the wound. Sixty-five-dollar bandages, she thought as she ripped another strip of cloth from her gown to hold the first one in place.

  Good thing I’m wearing a long gown, she mused ruefully. I can spare a few feet for bandages and still maintain my modesty, if not my dignity.

  “Here,” she said, holding the jacket for him. “You’d better put this on.”

  She helped him slide the coat over his wounded shoulder, wondering if he would die of pneumonia or infection or both.

  She began to shiver as the cold and the realization of what she had just done set in.

  Tate Sapa took the knife from her hand and replaced it in its sheath; then, sucking in a deep breath, he stood up. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, then reached for her hand and helped her to her feet.

  “What now?” Susannah asked, noting the ashen hue to his skin, the thin lines of pain that bracketed his mouth.

  “We need to find shelter.” Taking hold of the horse’s mane, he swung onto the animal’s bare back.

  Pain flickered in his eyes. He sat there a moment, breathing heavily, then reached for her hand.

  She wished suddenly that she could get on the horse without his help, but the animal looked as tall as a mountain.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, and placed her hand in his.

  A low groan rumbled in his throat as he lifted her up in front of him.

  And then they were riding across the vast empty prairie.

  Chapter Seven

  They rode for what seemed like days, pausing only briefly to rest the horse. Susannah was acutely conscious of Black Wind’s hard-muscled arm around her waist. She couldn’t remember ever being so cold, or so afraid, in her whole life.

  As the hours passed, his skin grew increasingly warm to the touch. Heat radiated from his body, warming her back. It occurred to her that he probably had a fever, but there was nothing she could do about it now. At least he didn’t have to worry about being cold.

  At long last, he drew rein under a rocky ledge that was just big enough to shelter them from the storm. Glancing around, she saw a house in the distance. Smoke rose from the chimney. Several horses stood head down in a peeled pole corral. There was a small barn, as well as a couple of other small buildings.

  She couldn’t help wondering what it was that possessed people to settle in the middle of the wilderness, surrounded by wild animals and wild Indians, and then complain when they were attacked.

  “Black Wind, let’s go down there,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “You need help.”

  “They will not help me.”

  “Of course they will.”

  He looked at her a long moment, then shook his head. “I am Lakota. They are wasichu.”

  “Wasichu?”

  “White.” There was no mistaking the scorn in his eyes or the disdain in his voice.

  “So?”

  “We are enemies, Su-san-nah.”

  Comprehension dawned slowly, but when it hit, it hit hard.

  He nodded when he saw that she understood, and then, very slowly, he slid from the back of the stallion. For a moment, he stood there, his forehead resting on the horse’s flank, the rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. He drew several deep breaths, and then offered her his hand.

  It was a large calloused hand, cold and wet, yet the touch of his fingers curling around hers sent a bolt of heat racing up her arm.

  As soon as her feet hit the ground, he released her and stepped back, his dark eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over her.

  And then, as if he was a puppet and someone had cut the strings, he sank to the ground.

  “Black Wind!” Kneeling beside him, she placed her hand on his forehead. The fever was much worse than she’d suspected. He felt like he was burning up. His brow was sheened with sweat, his eyes were glazed when he stared up at her.

  She removed her wet robe and covered him with it, wondering, as she did so, what good it would do. She tried to take the rifle from him, but he refused to let it go.

  She sat there for what seemed like hours, watching the rain, listening to the thunder, wondering what she would do if he died, wondering how she would ever get home again.

  When she was certain he was asleep, she removed the eagle feather from his hair and slipped the loop over her wrist. Then, stroking it lightly, she closed her eyes and thought of home…hot running water and forced air heating, cold milk and a warm bed, jean
s and t-shirts and comfortable shoes…

  Please, please, just let me go home… Even as the words crossed her mind, she wondered if she really wanted to go back to her own time now. How would she live with herself if she suddenly found herself back in her own cozy blue and white bedroom, knowing she had left Black Wind alone and unconscious.

  When she opened her eyes, the rain had stopped. The sun was going down. She looked at the house in the distance. A faint yellow light glowed like a welcoming beacon in one of the windows.

  A loud rumbling in her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the night before. There would be food in the house. Dry clothes and blankets. Some sort of medicine…

  Black Wind stirred restlessly as the fever burned through him. He needed help, and soon. She stuck the feather into the pocket of his coat for safe-keeping and put on her robe. With great trepidation, she approached the stallion. The horse was so tall, she couldn’t see over its back when she stood next to it. For a brief moment, she considered trying to climb into the saddle and riding toward the house, but she quickly changed her mind when the horse snorted and shook its head at her. Better a long walk than to risk being thrown, or having the animal run away with her.

  Muttering under her breath about being burdened with wounded Indians and bad-tempered horses, she squared her shoulders and started walking.

  Dogs began barking as soon as she neared the house. She came to an abrupt halt, intimidated by a big black shepherd that sniffed at her heels, its teeth bared, while the other, smaller dogs continued yapping wildly.

  A moment later, Susannah saw a movement at the window, then the front door eased open a little, revealing a tall, lanky man.

  “Blue, Patch,” he hollered, “shut up!”

  Immediately, the dogs stopped barking.

  “Who are you?” the man demanded brusquely. “What are you doing out here?”

  “My name’s Susannah Kingston. I’m lost and I need help…”

  “Who is it, Abe?” a female voice called.

  “Some woman. Says she’s lost.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Bring her on in. It’s cold outside.”

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t know, Hester. She’s in her nightclothes.”

  Susannah heard the sound of footsteps. And then a woman appeared in the doorway, standing a little behind her husband.

  “Come on in, dearie,” the woman said. She opened the door wider. “You’re gonna catch your death standing out there in the cold.”

  “I need help,” Susannah said. “The man with me is badly hurt.”

  “Go get him, Abe,” Hester said. She gave him a little shove. “Hurry along now.”

  “Dammit, woman…”

  “Abe Micklin, you do what I say, and you do it now!”

  “I’ll go with you,” Susannah said.

  “Damn right,” Abe muttered. “Can he ride, or do I need to hitch up the wagon?”

  “A wagon would be a big help.”

  Grumbling loudly, Abe lumbered off to hitch up the team.

  “Come inside, dearie,” Hester said. “Let me get you something dry to wear.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come along.”

  Susannah stood inside the bedroom doorway while Hester rummaged in a trunk at the foot of the bed.

  Hester looked to be in her early forties, Susannah thought. She had black hair just turning gray, sharp brown eyes and the wrinkled skin common to women who spent a lifetime on the plains. Susannah glanced around. The house was small but clean, sparsely furnished with a few pieces of rough-hewn furniture. Rag rugs covered the floor, cheerful gingham curtains fluttered at the window. A bouquet of wildflowers arranged in a rusty tin can made a bright spot of color on the kitchen table.

  “Here we go,” Hester said. Rising clumsily to her feet, she handed Susannah a warm wool dress and a pair of boots.

  “I reckon that dress’ll be a mite big on you, dearie, but at least it’s dry.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Susannah had changed and was ready to go by the time Abe returned with the wagon.

  He was a crusty old coot, Susannah mused. Tall and fence-post thin, he sat hunched over on the wagon seat, his battered hat pulled low on his forehead. He had skin like leather and pale-green eyes that didn’t miss a trick. She thought he looked like an old Ichabod Crane.

  They reached Black Wind a short time later. Susannah jumped from the wagon seat and rushed to his side, praying that he was still alive.

  “A redskin!” Abe exclaimed, coming up beside her. “You brought me out here for a dirty redskin!”

  “He’s hurt. He needs help.”

  “I ain’t helpin’ no Injun. And I sure as hell ain’t havin’ one in my house.”

  “Please, mister, he’ll die.”

  “Good riddance, I say.”

  “You’ve got to help him,” Susannah said. “He’s…he’s my husband.”

  “Husband!” He stared at her in disbelief.

  “Yes, he’s a scout for the army at Fort Collier,” Susannah said, making the story up as she went along. “We were on our way back to the fort when we were attacked by Indians. My husband was shot.”

  “Scout, huh? Long way from the fort, ain’t ya?”

  “I got lost trying to find my way back.”

  Abe studied her for several moments, his eyes narrowed, his expression dubious.

  “Su-san-nah?”

  She glanced at Black Wind. He was looking up at her, his eyes dark mirrors of pain. And then, slowly, his eyelids closed again. Fearing he had died, she knelt beside Black Wind and felt for his pulse. Thank God, he was still alive.

  “Please, Mister Micklin. We need help.”

  “All right, all right,” Abe said. “Long as he’s an Army scout…” He thrust the rifle into Susannah’s hands, muttering under his breath as he did so.

  He lifted Black Wind with remarkable ease for such a skinny man, displaying a wiry strength that took Susannah by surprise. Black Wind appeared to be unconscious, which was probably a blessing, Susannah mused as Abe plopped him over one shoulder and carried him to the wagon. She hurried forward and lowered the tailgate, stood there chewing on her lower lip as Abe placed Black Wind, none too gently, into the bed of the wagon.

  “I think I’ll ride back here, with him,” she said.

  “Suit yourself,” Abe muttered. Taking up the stallion’s reins, he tied the horse to the rear of the wagon, leaving Susannah to climb into the bed of the wagon as best she could.

  She put the rifle beside Black Wind, then climbed aboard, scraping her knee on the rough wood as she did so. Pushing the rifle out of the way, she sat down beside Black Wind and cradled his head in her lap, her hand idly stroking his brow.

  He groaned softly as the wagon hit a bump.

  “It’ll be all right,” Susannah said, wondering if he could hear her. “You’ll be dry and warm soon.”

  Abe drove the wagon to the barn, then vaulted to the ground.

  “You can bed down in the barn,” he said sourly. “I ain’t havin’ no redskin under my roof, Army scout or no.”

  Susannah didn’t argue. She was too thrilled at the prospect of having a roof over her head again.

  Abe carried Black Wind inside and settled him on a bed of sweet-smelling straw in an empty stall. Susannah followed on his heels, lugging the heavy rifle.

  “I reckon Hester’ll be out directly,” he said curtly. “I’ll put your horse in the corral.”

  “Thank you.”

  Muttering something unintelligible, Abe left the barn.

  Susannah propped the rifle in a corner, glad to be rid of it. She had never liked guns; this one was almost as long as she was tall.

  A short time later, Hester Micklin limped into the barn carrying several blankets, an oil lamp and a large basket.

  “There’s some hot water in there, and some salve you can use to treat his wounds,” she said, setting the basket on an upturned milk pail, “and clot
h for bandages.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Micklin.”

  “Hester, dearie, just call me Hester.”

  “Thank you, Hester.”

  “Ain’t nothing. Just bein’ neighborly. When you get done tendin’ your man, you come on up to the house. I’ve got some soup warmin’.”

  Susannah nodded, touched by the woman’s generosity.

  “Don’t mind my Abe too much,” Hester said. She spared a fond glance for her husband as he led the horses into their stalls and forked them each some hay. “Injuns killed his brother last year.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Hester nodded. “Pawnee found him Sam out huntin’ and kilt him. My Abe ain’t been the same since. He hates ’em all now. I tried to tell him you can’t blame every Injun alive for what happened, but he says he can. You come get me if you need help with yer man.”

  “I will.”

  She watched as Abe took Hester’s arm and walked her toward the house. For all his gruffness, she noticed he treated his wife gently enough.

  Setting her mind to the task at hand, Susannah eased Black Wind out of his jacket.

  “My man, indeed,” she muttered as she stripped off his wet moccasins. She bit down on her lower lip as she contemplated removing his breechclout. “No way,” she decided. It was only a little damp, after all.

  There was a covered bowl of hot water and a chunk of yellow soap in the basket. Susannah washed Black Wind’s face, chest, arms and legs, then carefully dried him with a length of toweling. She tried to remove the bandages from his back and shoulder, but the cotton was stuck fast to the dried blood. Her stomach knotted as she soaked the cloth, then peeled the cotton away.

  She washed the dried blood from the wounds, then studied the ugly holes carefully. She didn’t see any of the red streaks that were supposed to indicate infection. Breathing a silent prayer, she spread a thick layer of smelly yellow salve over the wounds, bandaged them with strips of clean cloth, then sat back on her heels.

  “Well, I’ve done all I know how to do,” she muttered. “I guess the rest is up to you.”

  Rising wearily to her feet, she spread his jacket over the stall door to dry, then walked up to the house and knocked on the front door.

  “Come in, come in,” Hester said. She ushered Susannah into a tiny kitchen. “Sit down before you fall down, dearie.”