It hadn’t occurred to him or Maggie that her simple trek to the creek would result in her death. That was one thing these dogs would be good for—alerting the family to the whereabouts of snakes. He shuddered.
Occasionally, he cupped his mouth and called out Charity’s name. His spirits sank each time he didn’t hear a response. Night fell. He desperately needed to get warm and rest. Just for a moment. He got a fire started, pulled the dog close, and then munched on dry bread.
He prayed the children would be all right during the night and into tomorrow. His chance of running across Charity as soon as the sun came out was slim. Nope, looked like he was going to have to work hard to find his woman.
His woman. The words sounded wonderful. When he found her, he would grab her, kiss her hard enough to take her breath away, and declare his love. He would beg her to stay, promising whatever she desired. There was absolutely no way Charity O’Connell Williams was getting away from him.
Sleep tempted him, but if he succumbed the fire would go out and there would be nothing left of him and the dog in the morning but a couple of icicles. He needed to get back on his feet and continue his search. He kicked snow over the fire until it was out and grabbed his knapsack.
The knapsack he had brought with him contained the bare essentials: a few cups worth of coffee, some dried meat, and flint for a fire. Lord, please let Charity need the food and drink. The alternative didn’t bear dwelling on.
32
Every joint in Charity’s body ached when she woke. Her front side stayed warm, while her back felt as though it wore a thin crust of ice. She struggled to get her bound feet under her without pitching headfirst into the fire.
Amos watched her, a smirk on his face. “Sleep well?”
“Please at least remove the ropes from my feet. I’m in danger of falling.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Somehow, you and Gabe managed to escape from the Indians. I’m thinking it was because they untied you for some reason.”
The man was smarter than he looked. “Please. I can’t travel like this.”
“True.” He untied the rope from around her ankles, then tied one end to a nearby tree. He pulled a pistol out of its holster and advanced toward her. “Please remain still. I wouldn’t want the bullet to go somewhere I didn’t intend.”
Charity’s eyes widened, and she withdrew as far as the rope would allow. Amos stuck the barrel of the gun to her leg, and pulled the trigger.
Fire shot across Charity’s thigh, bringing her to her knees. Tears poured down her face. “You shot me?”
“You won’t be able to run very well, but you’ll be able to walk, it’s only a flesh wound.” He withdrew a knife from its, sheath, lifted her skirt high enough to cut a swatch of her petticoat, then roughly bound her leg with the muslin. “There. You shouldn’t bleed to death.”
He was crazy with hatred. How could he shoot a defenseless woman? “What kind of a man are you?”
“One who believes in justice.” He yanked her to her feet, then untied the rope again and retied to his horse’s saddle horn. He did intend for her to walk while he rode the horse.
“Justice for what?” Charity limped after him toward his mount. Agony shot through her leg.
“Your husband stole the only woman I’ve ever loved. You live on land that should have been mine.”
“Maggie made her choice, Mr. Jenkins. You should accept that fact.”
He yanked the rope hard enough to bring her again to her knees. Blood ran down her leg, soaking her clothes. Her head swam with pain and tears clouded her vision. “I’ve done nothing wrong to you. You are a scoundrel.” Despite her agony, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “If you’re a praying man, I suggest you pray Gabriel doesn’t find you.”
“He will have no idea I had anything to do with your disappearance.” Amos swung his leg over the saddle. “He’ll believe you perished in the wilderness.”
The man was delusional. Charity was too stubborn to die in the snow, despite her fear from the day before. That had been exhaustion and cold talking.
He spurred the horse to move, almost yanking Charity’s arms from their sockets. If she had a gun, the man would not need to worry about Gabriel. She would take care of him herself! Her leg burned, and her knee buckled. How could he be so cruel?
The act of lifting her foot clear of the snow for each step caused unbelievable agony. “Just leave me here. I can’t go on like this. You’re a horrible man.”
“Shut up.” He slowed his horse. “Walk in the horse’s tracks, and you’ll be fine. Use your head for something other than a hat rack, woman.”
She glowered, deciding she would not complain again, even if she found herself dragged, which might not be a bad idea considering how much her leg pained her. “How far is the Indian village?”
“Half a day’s ride. You should be glad that the savages have no qualms about taking white women. I would hate to have to kill you myself.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” The coward.
She would never make it. She almost gave into the sobs threatening to burst free. Instead, she focused on bringing to mind Gabriel’s strong jaw and hazel eyes. The children’s dark curls. She hung her head, and for the first time in over two years, prayed for God to help her. If He chose not to, then she prayed He would comfort the children and ease their sorrow at losing another mother.
After what she thought was a couple of hours, maybe less, she trudged mindlessly behind the horse, often losing her footing and being dragged until Amos noticed and stopped long enough for her to gain her footing.
This time, he glared at her until she wanted to smash her fist into his nose. Instead, she struggled upright and returned his glare. She wanted to scream at him, tell him that if he would let her ride they would reach their destination faster. But, she wouldn’t. She would not say another word to him. When they reached Red Feather’s village, she would not speak.
When she could go no farther, she collapsed and refused to move. Let him shoot her. She would welcome the end to her misery. With what little strength she could muster, she lifted her head and stabbed him with her gaze.
###
Gabe jerked as a gunshot rang out. He forced his stiff joints to move faster and called to the dog. “Come on, girl.”
Who could be shooting way up here? He was pretty sure Charity hadn’t taken one of the rifles with her. He should have checked the mantel. There weren’t any homesteaders this far up the mountain that Gabe knew about, but he supposed it was possible someone could have put in stakes without him knowing. Maybe Charity found her way to them. He faltered. Maybe they weren’t the type of folks for a woman alone to stumble upon.
Gabe increased his pace, lifting one leg, then plunging, then lifting until he got into a rhythm of making his way through the snow. In some areas, the wind had swept the ground almost clear amongst the trees, something Gabe expressed great thanks to God for.
He stopped in a clearing and eyed the fire pit. He held his hand over it. Still warm. “What’s this?” He squatted next to a dark stain on the snow. Blood? He stood and looked around, his rifle held ready.
Lady sniffed around the blood and a packed down spot in the snow where a body had obviously lain. She whined and looked up at Gabe.
“Was Charity here? Is this her blood?” He patted the dog, even while his heart thundered. Had the shot he’d heard wounded, or killed, Charity? If she was dead, where was her body? He quickly checked the surrounding area, his movements frantic.
Wait. Slow down and think. Somebody had lain there, and somebody, or something, was shot there. He studied the ground, noting hoof prints and what was clearly a set of human tracks following behind. He placed his foot next to the track. The prints were too small for a grown man.
He set his jaw. Clearly Charity, or another small person, followed somebody on a horse. “Come on, Lady. Let’s follow these tracks.”
The farther he walked, the clearer it
became that someone was following and falling several times in the snow. Blood stained each scuffed spot that marked a fall, and spots of it could be found in between. Was an injured person being taken against their will? What if he wasn’t following his wife at all? What if he wasted valuable time following the wrong person? He stopped for a moment and studied the tracks once more.
He couldn’t be wrong. There weren’t that many people up here. He glanced at the dog. Lady whined and continued down the trail ahead of him as snow began to fall. Gabe raised his rifle and fired off a shot.
###
“Get up.” Amos yanked on the rope.
Charity’s head drooped, and she stared at the ground. Snow fell and dusted her head and shoulders. She had read somewhere that a thick blanket of snow could actually keep a body warm. Maybe she would try it.
“I said, get up!” He yanked harder.
She yanked back, barely affecting him on the horse. His face darkened.
He dismounted and stomped over to her. “Do you want to die out here?”
She speared him with as icy a gaze as she could muster.
He growled and grabbed her elbow. “Get on the horse. We’re almost there anyway.”
Pain screamed through Charity’s thigh as he hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward his horse. He half helped her and half threw her into the saddle, then swung up behind her.
“Of all the women in Montana, you must be the most stubborn. I don’t care if you talk or not. Doesn’t affect me any.”
Obviously her silence did bother him, since he rattled on like a magpie. Charity clamped her lips together to keep from smiling. It wouldn’t do to let him know she played him like a fiddle.
A gunshot sounded about a mile behind them. Charity screamed. Gabriel was coming for her! Amos clamped his hand over her mouth and kicked his horse into a trot.
Within the hour they arrived in an Indian village. Teepees sat in a circle. Villagers in buckskin and furs stared as Amos steered the horse toward the largest tent.
A massive Indian that Charity didn’t know, parted a flap and emerged with Red Feather. Red Feather’s eyes widened at the sight of Charity. She shook her head, hoping he would read her unspoken message and pretend he didn’t know her.
“Do you speak English?” Amos demanded.
“I do. I translate to chief.” Red Feather gave a nod. “Why you here?”
Amos took a deep breath. “It has come to my attention that a young girl was killed. I did not shoot her, but she died as a result of my gun being fired. I have come to offer this woman in trade.” He slid Charity from the horse. She cried out as she landed on her wounded leg and crumpled in the snow.
Red Feather frowned and translated. “She is wounded.”
“Well,” Amos shrugged. “This one I did shoot when she tried to escape. Once healed, she will make a fine slave or wife.”
Red Feather motioned to a woman to assist Charity to her feet. He said something else to the chief, then returned his attention to Amos. “We accept your trade.” He cocked his head. “Where are her people?”
Amos met Charity’s gaze, and grinned. “I found her wandering in the storm yesterday.” He glanced at the rapidly increasing snowfall. “Now, that we have reached an agreement, I must head home myself before I am snowed in. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” He tipped his hat and turned his horse.
Charity slumped to the ground.
Red Feather stood over her. “Stand. Do not let the enemy see you weak.”
She grabbed the woman’s arm and struggled to her feet.
“He will look back. Walk to that teepee on own two feet.”
Charity followed the direction he pointed, trying not to lean too heavily on the woman helping her. “Thank you for not letting him know we are acquainted.”
“Babbling Brook will tend to your wound. I will get word to your husband as soon as possible.” He gave another nod and ducked back into the teepee with the chief, but not before Charity saw him motion to a young brave who immediately melted into the trees.
Despite his evil, Charity’s heart constricted at the thought that Amos would have to pay for his crime after all. She sincerely doubted the brave followed to make sure the man made it home safely.
33
The Indian woman didn’t speak a word of English, but spoke a mile a minute in her own tongue. Her smile seemed like a permanent fixture on her face, helping to set Charity at ease. She had only ever had experience with one Indian, Red Feather, yet she didn’t believe any of his tribe intended her harm. They had stared as she walked to the teepee, but they looked more curious than hostile.
She sat on top of a bundle of furs and watched while Babbling Brook dumped some type of powder into a gourd of water. She stirred the concoction with a stick, then motioned for Charity to drink.
It smelled foul, and Charity wrinkled her nose. Babbling Brook waved harder. Ugh. She didn’t think she could drink the liquid that was now a putrid shade of green. But if she didn’t, she risked hurting the feelings of someone who seemed to want to help her. Charity closed her eyes and took a sip of the most rancid tasting thing she had ever put in her mouth. Heavens, the woman was trying to poison her.
Babbling Brook upended the gourd until Charity had no choice but to swallow or drown. Her stomach churned, and her eyelids grew heavy almost immediately, whether from the drink or sheer exhaustion, she didn’t know. She only knew that rest suddenly became the most important thing to her.
The smoke from the fire rose toward a hole in the tanned hides that made the teepee’s walls. The tendrils danced a joyful jig on their way. Charity smiled and wanted to reach out a hand to touch it, but her arm wouldn’t move. What was in the drink? If she had the energy to do so, she would ask for more, terrible taste or not.
The other woman gently nudged her back onto the furs then lifted Charity’s skirt. Charity ought to be embarrassed, but she couldn’t even muster the energy for that.
Babbling Brook clicked her tongue and shook her head, then picked up a knife from a rock in the fire ring. Charity hoped the other woman intended no harm. Too weak to stop her, she let the drowsiness overtake her and prayed for God to save her.
###
Gabe whipped around as a shot rang out. A deep rumbling high on the mountaintop filled the air. Amos Jenkins rode hard through a narrow mountain pass toward him, a look of determination on his face.
So this is how it would end. Gabe pulled his rifle free, prepared to put an end to the silly feud. He didn’t want to shoot him, only to make the man stop long enough to listen to reason.
The rumbling grew louder, and the ground shook under him. Rogue tossed his head and neighed in fear.
Gabe looked up. The mountainside barreled toward the mountain pass like a freight train. He kicked Rogue into action to get further away, yelling over his shoulder. “Ride hard, Amos! Avalanche. Hurry, man.” Amos might be Gabe’s enemy, but Gabe didn’t want him dead, and the other man’s location didn’t bode well. Amos rode directly in the avalanche’s path, and most likely couldn’t hear Gabe’s warning over the noise.
Amos’s eyes widened. His horse reared. Amos’s mouth opened in a scream as the wall of snow swept over him, taking him and the horse over a cliff. His heart sank. There was no way the man could survive a fall of that magnitude.
Gabe reined Rogue to a stop, his heart pounding in his throat. He made out the silhouette of an Indian high on the ridge. Had he been the target of Amos’s bullet and not Gabe? Nevertheless, the gunshot must have started the avalanche.
Gabe dismounted and stared at the wall of white in front of him. There was no way he could take Rogue over something so high and soft, and they were too far from home to send the horse back alone. He couldn’t leave Meg and Sam alone any longer. Could he get Miriam to stay with them and then return with Hiram? Or had Charity found the Indian camp and sought shelter there?
He fell to his knees. What was Amos doing out here? Had he taken Charity? Was she
still lost in the wilderness? He buried his face in his hands. The myriad of questions for which he had no answers tormented him.
His heart told him to continue, his head told him he could search no longer. The children were alone. Forcing himself to his feet, he climbed back in the saddle, God, please protect her. He turned Rogue toward home.
###
Charity woke to the quiet murmurs of two people speaking in a foreign tongue. Her leg throbbed, and she reached down to inspect the damage. Someone had bandaged her wound and dressed her from head to toe in soft doeskin. Her hair spread free across the furs she lay on. She wanted nothing more than to drift back to sleep, but her rumbling stomach wouldn’t allow her to.
“Food.” Red Feather thrust a bowl of meat and vegetables at her.
She pushed to a sitting position. “Thank you. How long was I sleeping?”
He shrugged. “Few hours. Long enough for Babbling Brook to close wound in leg.”
“Gabriel hasn’t come for me?” She thought he would have by now. What if Amos had gotten to him before the Indian brave got to Amos? “Where did you send that young man?”
Red Feather squatted in front of her. “After the man who shot you. The one who killed the young brave’s woman. They were to be …wed … in the spring. She was my niece.”
“I’m sorry.” Charity tipped the bowl and slurped some of the stew. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one who shot Gabriel, too. But, Red Feather, killing is wrong.”
“I am not the one killing him.” He poked at the fire with a stick and avoided Charity’s gaze.
“You sent someone to do so, therefore you are also at fault.” Charity didn’t want to argue with the man who most likely saved her life. “I apologize. I mean no disrespect.”
“Not all my people believe in the white man’s God. My nephew is such a one.” Red Feather tossed the stick into the fire and sat cross-legged in front of her. “Most do, but not him. He believes in a life for a life. Chief tried to talk him out of going after the white man, but he insisted. It is his decision.”
Woman of Courage (Four Full length Historical Christian Romances in One Volume): Woman of Courage Series Page 68
