Marshalling all his strength, he advanced on the warrior. In a last desperate move, he feinted to the left, dropped into a crouch, and, pivoting on the balls of his feet, brought his knife upward in a short quick jab as the Crow lunged toward him. His knife sank into the warrior’s chest.
The Crow grunted as the ten-inch blade pierced his heart. For a moment he looked faintly surprised and then, expelling a last bream, he spiraled to the ground.
Rafe’s eyelids felt heavy, and the knife was like a lead weight in his hands. He gazed at Caitlyn, trying to smile, to reassure her, but the strength was draining from his body. He heard her cry of distress as he dropped to his knees, the knife slipping from his fingers.
Caitlyn ran to his side, more frightened than she had ever been. Rafe’s face was pale and drawn, blood covered his left side and soaked his trousers.
“Rafe. Rafe!”
With an effort, he lifted his head, his dark eyes seeking her face, and then he slid to the ground, unconscious.
Frantic, Caitlyn ran to her horse and removed the canteen from the saddle horn. Grabbing her chemise, she hurried back to Rafe’s side and began to wipe the blood from his side, then she pressed the cloth over the ugly wound, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. And all the while she sent urgent prayers to heaven, praying that God would spare her husband’s life.
And even as she prayed, the cloth under her hand was turning red with blood. So much blood. How could a man lose so much and still live? The warm smell filled her nostrils, making her stomach queasy.
She whispered his name, felt a flicker of hope as his eyelids fluttered open.
“Caty?”
“I’m here.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. Might be others…”
“Lie still.”
“No. Got to get you out of here.”
“Rafe, you’re bleeding and I can’t make it stop.”
He gazed into her eyes for several moments. The pain and the weariness made it difficult to understand what she was saying. Her face blurred, and he blinked several times, trying to clear his vision.
Caitlyn’s heart went out to him. She could see in the depths of his eyes that he was in terrible pain, and yet his only thought was for her safety.
His teeth clenched, Rafe lifted his head and gestured at the blood-soaked cloth. “Let me see it.”
Carefully, Caitlyn removed the bandage, revealing a jagged gash oozing with blood.
“Knife,” Rafe said, his voice unsteady. “Heat the blade…slap it over the cut.”
She nodded, swallowing back the nausea that rose in her throat. Rising, she went to her saddlebag. She had a box of sulfur matches wrapped in a piece of oilskin, along with a change of clothes and some beef jerky.
Removing the matches, she built a small fire, rinsed the blood from the knife with water from her canteen, and then held the blade over the flames until it glowed a brilliant white. She stared at the hot metal for a long time. She couldn’t do it, she thought helplessly. She could not place that heated strip of metal over living flesh.
“Rafe…” She knelt beside him, the knife in her hand.
“Do it, Caty.” He forced a smile. “It can’t hurt any worse than it does now.”
He turned on his side, his face pressed against her knees, his hands grasping her thighs, his whole body tense with dreadful anticipation.
Biting down on her lower lip, Caitlyn uncovered the ghastly wound. She felt a shudder pass through Rafe’s body as the heat from the blade neared his flesh.
Teeth clenched, Caitlyn pressed the white-hot blade over the wound. Rafe groaned and his fingers dug into her thighs. His body convulsed as the heated blade seared his torn flesh, and then, mercifully, he passed out.
The stench of burning flesh filled Caitlyn’s nostrils, mingling with the scent of blood and death. Tossing the knife into the dirt, she turned her head to the side and began to vomit. She retched until her stomach was empty and her throat ached, sickened by what she had done, by what surely would have happened to her if Rafe had not come along when he did, by the presence of the two dead Indians.
After a long while, she stood up. She rinsed her mouth with water, and washed her hands and face. For the first time since Rafe had killed her attackers, it occurred to her that she was naked. She dressed quickly, then stripped the saddle from her horse and covered Rafe with the blanket. He was still unconscious. Hopefully, he would stay that way for some time. She gazed at him for several minutes, wishing there was something more she could do for him, praying that the wound in his side would not become infected.
Too restless to sit still, she spent the next half-hour dragging the two dead warriors further into the trees, covering their bodies with leaves and branches. After that, she went through their war bags, but found little except for a few pots of war paint, jerky and pemmican, and a bladder of water.
Returning to Rafe’s side, she sat down beside him, wondering what had happened to the herd and to the Circle C cowhands. Were the two dead Indians part of the raiding party who had attacked the herd? For a moment, she considered going in search of Scott and the others, but such a move seemed ill-advised. She had no idea where the rest of the Indians were, no way of knowing if any of the cowhands were still alive.
And she could not leave Rafe out here alone. She gazed at him intently, wishing he were unhurt. He would know what to do. Blinking back her tears, she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. He was badly wounded. Perhaps fatally.
The shadows grew long, and the sky turned to flame as the sun slid toward the horizon. She watched the changing colors of twilight, felt the air grow cold as the sun slipped out of sight. She tucked the blanket securely over Rafe’s shoulders, and wrapped another around herself.
Rafe stirred restlessly, but he did not wake up. His skin was hot when she touched it and she bathed his body with cool water in an effort to bring down the fever. For a time, he murmured incoherently, and then he fell silent, his breathing shallow, his skin still much too warm.
Caitlyn took his hand in hers, willing him to get better, quietly begging him not to die. She had known him such a short time and yet he was her whole life.
“Caty?”
“I’m here.”
Blindly, he reached out for her and she cradled his head in her lap, her hand stroking his forehead. The heat radiating from his body frightened her.
Hours passed. The moon rose high in the sky, and the woods were filled with the sounds of the night—the rustle of the wind playing in the trees; the distant baying of a wolf; the soft whoosh of an owl’s wings as it passed overhead in search of prey.
Rafe had told her some Indian tribes believed owls brought bad luck. The Apache believed the presence of an owl was an omen of impending death.
In the daylight, safe at home, she would have dismissed such a belief as superstitious nonsense. It was not so easy to ignore such a belief now, with Rafe lying in her lap, badly wounded.
She held him all through the night, her heart aching for the pain that troubled him even in sleep. Tremors wracked his body, and quiet tears slipped down her cheeks. Her eyelids grew heavy, fluttering down as she curled up beside Rafe, one arm draped protectively over his chest. With a sigh, she crossed the threshold from consciousness to slumber.
He ran a fever for the next two days, and Caitlyn stayed close to his side, bathing the sweat from his body, giving him as much water to drink as he could hold, urging him to eat when he was awake for more than a few minutes. Sometimes he clung to her, refusing to let her go, his fingers occasionally bruising her flesh as pain and fever tormented him.
Fear was Caitlyn’s constant companion. Fear that the wound would fester. Fear that he would die. The ever-present fear that more Indians would come.
She had resigned herself to the fact that he was not going to get better when, miraculously, his fever broke and he fell into a deep, peaceful, healing sleep.
Caitlyn’s smile was brighter than the rising sun as she offered a
quiet prayer of heartfelt thanksgiving. Relief and weariness washed over her like a cleansing tide. Thank God, she thought as she curled up beside Rafe to sleep, the worst was over.
Chapter Fifteen
Rafe woke to a nagging pain in his left side and a terrible thirst. For a moment, he stared up at the cloudless sky, his breathing heavy as he fought to conquer the throbbing ache that seemed to be as much a part of him as his hands and feet.
He felt Caitlyn’s warmth pressed against his right side and when he turned his head, he saw her lying beside him, her head pillowed on her arm. There were dark shadows under her eyes and a smudge of dust on her forehead.
Moving carefully so as not to awaken her, he eased the blanket back, removed the bandage from his side, and studied the wound. The gash was ragged and ugly, the skin surrounding it singed and black, but he could detect no sign of infection. He was lucky to be alive, he thought wryly. Damn lucky.
He drew the blanket up over his chest again, disgusted because he was too weak to move without becoming winded. It would be several days before he would be strong enough to travel.
Muttering an oath, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep again.
He was not a good patient. He fretted constantly because he had to lie there, helpless as a newborn babe, when he was anxious to find out what had happened to Scott and the others, and to the herd. It was all Caitlyn could do to keep him immobile and after three days of trying, she gave up. The wound was healing, and there were no telltale red streaks or other signs of infection. His temper was vile, but his color was good, and so was his appetite for food and for her.
Though he was too weak and too sore to engage in anything strenuous, he was strong enough to hold her close and kiss her, strong enough to caress her until she yearned for his complete recovery.
On the fourth day after his fever broke, he insisted on getting up and walking around, saying that lying down made him feel weak. Caitlyn thought he looked a little shaky, but his determination won out and later that afternoon, after he had rested again, they packed up and headed for the river. They were out of water; it was time to move on.
At the Platte, they filled their canteens and then rode upstream until they located the tracks of the herd. The ground was badly chewed up by hundreds of head of stampeding cattle, leaving a trail that was wide and easy to follow.
They had gone less than a mile when they found the body of Wishful Potter. It was barely recognizable. The Indians had scalped him, and scavengers had preyed on the corpse. Caitlyn turned away, her stomach heaving, and saw a second body lying in the underbrush. It was Hal Tyler. Were they all dead?
“Let’s go,” Rafe called.
“Go?” Caitlyn repeated weakly. “We’ve got to bury them first.”
Rafe shook his head. “I’d like to Caty, but I don’t have a shovel or the strength.”
“Please. We can’t just leave them out here.”
“They’re beyond caring,” Rafe said gently.
“Please.”
He looked into her luminous green eyes and he could not refuse her. “All right,” he agreed, dismounting. “We’ll gather up some branches and rocks and cover them with that. It’s the best we can do.”
It took the better part of an hour to gather enough fallen limbs and rocks to cover both bodies, but Caitlyn felt better when the job was done. Until she looked at Rafe. His face was pale, his skin sheened with sweat though the day was cool. How foolish she had been to worry about the dead when her only concern should have been for her husband’s health.
She saw him wince with pain when he stepped into the saddle, and her conscience pricked her. Just because he stubbornly insisted he was well enough to go on didn’t mean it was true.
They found Josh Turner’s body a short time later. When Rafe started to dismount, Caitlyn told him to stay put, that she would take care of covering the body. Nevertheless, Rafe insisted on helping her. There were tight lines of pain around his mouth by the time they had finished and Caitlyn hoped they wouldn’t find any more bodies. She murmured a brief prayer over the makeshift grave, then mounted her horse, her heart heavy.
Moving on, they saw where the herd had slowed in its headlong flight. Rafe reined his horse to a halt and followed the trail with his eyes. He frowned as he studied the prints. The hooves of the horses were shod. And Indians didn’t ride shod ponies.
“What is it?” Caitlyn asked, riding up beside him.
“Nothing,” Rafe replied absently. Dismounting, he hunkered down on his heels for several minutes, studying the ground and then he began to walk, following the trail on foot. He swore softly when, some yards away, the trail of the herd divided.
He stared into the distance, his expression thoughtful. The shod horses bothered him. Of course, they might have been Circle C horses, but some sixth sense told him otherwise.
Mounting, they continued toward Fort Laramie.
They found no more bodies that day.
At dusk, they made camp near a shallow stream. Rafe caught a couple of speckled trout and Caitlyn cooked them, wondering if she’d be able to eat after the carnage they had seen that day.
She picked at her food, even as she urged Rafe to eat his. In the end, neither of them ate much, and Rafe threw the scraps a good distance from camp.
“Do you think they’re all dead?” Caitlyn asked later, when they were lying close in each other’s arms.
“Probably.”
Caitlyn gazed up at the star-studded sky. All dead. Hal and Wishful. Josh and Nate. Old Web. And Scott. How could she tell Naomi that Scott was dead?
They were on the trail early the next morning. Caitlyn looked at Rafe, dismayed by the pain she saw reflected in his eyes. Why was he pushing himself so hard? she wondered bleakly. The cattle were gone, and the men were dead.
“Why don’t we just turn around and go home?” she asked as they traveled steadily toward Fort Laramie.
“Some of the men might have survived. They might even have saved part of the herd. If they did, they’d go to the fort to sell the stock and recuperate.”
“Maybe,” Caitlyn agreed dubiously. But she doubted if any of the men were alive. Still, when they found no more bodies that day, she felt a faint thread of hope take root in her heart. Perhaps some of the men had survived; perhaps all was not lost after all.
The next two days passed without incident, but Caitlyn could not help growing more and more nervous. Each day that passed took them deeper into Indian territory, and she knew they were ill prepared to meet, much less survive, another attack. They had no weapons other than the bow and arrows and the knives Rafe had taken from the two dead warriors. She was not much impressed with their scanty arsenal until the morning she saw Rafe use the bow.
They had camped near a winding stream the night before and now Rafe stood behind a fat tree trunk, downwind of the three does and two fawns drinking from the edge of the stream.
Caitlyn held her breath as Rafe put an arrow to the bowstring and sighted down the shaft. The arrow was made of cane, fletched with three feathers from a red-tailed hawk. The bow was made of mulberry wood, the string fashioned from sinew.
It seemed an eternity passed as Rafe took aim and then he let the arrow fly. She supposed it was a beautiful shot. The arrow flew straight and true, killing one of the does instantly. The other deer bounded away and Caitlyn felt a keen sense of regret that such a beautiful animal had to be killed so that they might have food.
She watched as Rafe quickly skinned and quartered the deer. He sliced a good portion of the meat into thin strips for jerky, then roasted a couple of steaks. For all her sorrow at seeing the doe killed, Caitlyn had to admit that the meat was the best she’d ever tasted.
Later, while Rafe prepared the rest of the meat for their journey, she walked a short distance downstream where she found a berry bush. She also found a wild plum tree and she filled her skirt with fruit.
By the time Rafe had finished with the venison, it was dusk and they spent the ni
ght near the stream, feasting on fresh venison, berries, and cool clear water. She watched Rafe continually, ever thankful that he was still alive. She was lucky, she thought, lucky to have such a strong, resourceful man for a husband.
They rode into Fort Laramie two weeks later.
* * * * *
Caitlyn relaxed on the big brass bed, her eyelids heavy, her hair squeaky clean for the first time in weeks. Rafe lay beside her, his eyes closed, one arm thrown across his forehead. They had arrived at the fort earlier that afternoon. Rafe had reported the Indian attack, and been informed that three of his men had reached the fort. One had died, and the other two were in the infirmary.
“Looks like you could use a couple of days there yourself,” the commanding officer had remarked, but Rafe had refused.
They had spent a few minutes with Scott and Nate. Scott had taken an arrow in the shoulder and another in his left thigh, and Nate had sustained a nasty head wound. Web had been unconscious when they reached the fort, Scott said, and he had never recovered.
Caitlyn had insisted Rafe let the doctor examine his wound while they were there, and only when the doctor announced that everything was coming along fine did she truly believe Rafe was out of danger.
Caitlyn glanced out the window. A flag waved in the distance, and she felt a sense of pride as she gazed at the bright red, white, and blue stars and stripes. She had been impressed with what she saw when they rode into the clay and brick fort. Groups of houses were built near the fifteen-foot-high walls, leaving a center compound of about a hundred feet square. Originally erected as a trading post thirty years ago, in 1834, it was located on the left bank of the Laramie River, about a mile above its junction with the North Platte. But thirteen years later the Army, wanting to establish a fort in the area, purchased the Laramie Trading Post, and called it Fort Laramie.
Whatever its origins, Caitlyn was glad the fort existed. It served as a place of refuge for westbound travelers, a haven of safety in the midst of warring Indian tribes.
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