by Judith Pella
“Anyway, it’s a sure bet they ain’t back there by coincidence,” said Griff, shaking his head. He looked around at his men. “I hoped we could stay together for protection against Indians, but if they catch up to us, we gotta scatter in groups of two or three. Mrs. Stoner, you stick with me.”
“I sure hope they ain’t Rangers,” said Slim, voicing all their fears.
“Come on, let’s ride!” said Griff, spurring his palomino into a gallop.
They couldn’t keep going at that rate indefinitely, much to Deborah’s relief. Though she was an excellent rider, no woman in her condition could be expected to take such a punishment. At midday, they had to stop for a rest, not so much for Deborah’s sake but because they would kill their horses otherwise. They ate a hurried, cold meal while the horses drank from a stream and nibbled grass. Griff paced the whole time, stopping only to shade his eyes against the gray glare of the sky to survey his pursuers. They seemed to keep coming on, never stopping, never resting. Who were they that they could keep this up? It was impossible that Sheriff Pollard from Stoner’s town would have that kind of stamina. Even Griff’s more recent enemies couldn’t be that persistent. They had to be Rangers.
Deborah wondered the same thing. And from listening to the talk of the men, and from what she already knew of Texas Rangers, she, too, was convinced they were the ones who trailed them so relentlessly. Sam Killion, ex-Ranger, itinerant preacher and hypocrite, had betrayed her. But it was her fault for being so trusting. Hadn’t the Stoners taught her anything? Would she ever be rid of that gullible optimism that seemed determined to dog her existence? She should have let Sid Miller shoot Killion. Now, she and Griff and six others would die because of her stupidity. If she ever saw Killion again, she’d kill him herself!
After only a fifteen-minute rest, they were climbing back into the hard saddles. They traveled many miles that day, and when night came, they had to sleep, if only for an hour. Griff reasoned that the Rangers had to sleep sometime, too. They had to!
So, as night descended, the outlaws fairly tumbled out of their saddles. They slept for three hours, not even bothering to set a watch.
Griff awoke first with a sickening start. He had intended to take lookout, but he had fallen asleep moments after sitting on the ground. He roused his companions with difficulty, having to threaten and cajole them mightily to make them move. They discussed splitting up right then, but it was finally decided that until it became absolutely necessary, they were still better off together. Griff said he was going to keep his eyes open for a good place for a showdown, for it was better they choose it than their enemies.
He never got the chance.
It was slow progress for the weary outlaws the rest of the night, picking their way carefully over the terrain with their exhausted animals, trying to cover their tracks as they proceeded. By the light of morning, there was no sign of pursuit, but everyone was too tired to cheer or do anything but trudge doggedly onward. At least they held some hope that their pursuers were indeed human beings, and not some sleepless, tireless other-worldly creatures.
Three hours after daylight, the outlaws had veered quite a bit to the east, hoping that by traveling in a more erratic pattern they would throw off the Rangers, or whoever it was tracking them. And they thought their plan was working. The grassy plains had gradually begun to give way to the valley of the Cimarron River with its swath of cottonwoods and other deciduous trees breaking the dreary landscape. Instead of wasting time trying to find a place to ford the river, the outlaws turned east along its bank.
Then the sound of pounding hoofbeats exploded upon them. Moments after the outlaws descended the bank, a dozen riders appeared at the top of the rise. Somehow they must have found a shortcut, for they could not have ridden for three days without sleep. But whatever the case, there they were, guns firing as they swooped, like vultures, down upon the outlaws.
Griff and his men had no choice now but to cross the river, hoping that the water would be shallow. In a frantic chaos of gunfire and the noisy protests of skittish, fatigued horses, the outlaws clamored into the water, which, at its deepest, reached the backs of the horses. Keeping her head low, Deborah was nevertheless amazed at how she and the others were escaping the barrage of bullets. Perhaps these lawmen weren’t Rangers after all, for Texas Rangers were reputed for their marksmanship. Then, as if to mock her momentary optimism, she heard a sharp cry and saw one of the outlaws fall into the water, a widening pool of red surrounding his body.
Those who reached the shore first paused to return fire, covering their companions. But when all were on dry ground, they continued their flight, pausing only occasionally to fire back at the lawmen who lost some ground as they, too, forded the river. The gap was only momentary, however, and much too soon the lawmen were again within firing range.
They could no longer outrun the lawmen. Griff frantically surveyed their surroundings to find suitable cover for a pitched battle. But nothing was at hand but spindly trees and a few small rocks. It was time for the outlaws to scatter. Their only hope now was to divide the strength of the lawmen, if that’s who they were.
Deborah had every intention of keeping her eyes on Griff and staying with him as he had instructed her. But just as he made a sharp veer to the left into a grove of cottonwoods, Deborah felt a stabbing burst of pain in her right shoulder. The suddenness of the gunshot and the shock of the initial blow broke her intense concentration and nearly blinded her. She could no more keep her eyes on Griff than …
Smack!
She did not see the low tree branch. It clipped her against the chest and dragged her from her horse. She landed with a thud on the ground and had only a blurred image of horses galloping past before blackness engulfed her.
20
The blackness did not go away. Deborah wondered if she was still unconscious or if her fall had blinded her. Several alarming moments inched by before she realized it was night. She must have been passed out for several hours, for it had been early afternoon when she had fallen from her horse.
But where was everyone? Why had they left her? Weren’t even the lawmen interested in capturing her?
Her numbed mind cleared slowly, but eventually she became alert enough to speculate on what must have happened. First of all, she knew she lay in the same spot where she had fallen because when her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could see the branch that had unseated her. Possibly no one had even seen her fall. The lawmen, intent on pursuit, could have charged past, completely unaware of her presence. As for Griff, he certainly had been in no position to come back for her. She didn’t expect it of him and, in a way, was glad he hadn’t, for it would have been one more debt she owed him. Most likely he assumed she had been killed in the gun battle. Perhaps Griff himself had been killed. That thought saddened her a bit in spite of herself. She wanted no attachments, especially to men; but Griff, for all his coarse ways, had been decent toward her and, even if he was an outlaw, he had been a good man.
But, as Griff himself had once told her, the West did not allow one the luxury of grief. She had her own survival to attend to. She could not help Griff whether he was alive or dead, but there was still a chance for her.
She tried to move. The pain shooting through her shoulder nearly sent her into another black swoon, but she gritted her teeth against it and tried once more. This time she was ready and braced against it. She sat up. Much to her relief, her legs and left arm functioned properly. Nothing was broken. The next concern that leaped into her mind was soothed almost immediately as a heartening kick within her womb assured Deborah her baby lived.
Having confronted the more urgent matters, Deborah was free to contemplate the broader implications of her predicament. She was alone in the wilderness, she had no food, no horse, and no knowledge of where she was or in which direction she should go. Oddly enough, the hopelessness of her position did not panic her. She wished she had listened closer to Griff, but she had picked up a few things from him. Per
haps she was a fool to believe the little smatterings of trail lore she had chanced to glean from the outlaws could suffice her now, but it was all she had, and she was not ready to give up. Three months ago she might have done just that, for she had been beaten and defeated, willing to accept death as a welcome release. But the ensuing passage of time had restored her somewhat, giving physical strength if nothing else. She could also sense a kind of hope springing again within, even though it was only a hope born of stubborn refusal to allow Caleb Stoner to win. If for no other reason, she would endure and triumph over this new trial just to prove that there were some things, some people, in this world that Caleb could not control. Ironically, for her continued survival, he could never know of her victory over him, but that wasn’t important—she would know. And that would have to be enough.
With that determination burning inside, Deborah dragged herself to her feet. The dull night spun before her eyes and nausea assailed her, but, clinging to a nearby tree trunk, she straightened her shoulders in spite of the coursing ache in the right one, and pushed out her chin. She peered through the dark almost as if she thought Caleb might be watching. Then she took a step on wobbly, weak legs, feeling like a newborn colt—not at all like a woman with a purpose.
Suddenly Deborah stopped and smiled to herself. Despite her determination, she had no idea at all where she was going. Even seasoned outlaws were cautious about traveling at night. As much as she wanted to proceed, common sense demanded that she wait until daylight. But how would she know, even by the light of day, which direction to take? Griff was going north, but where was north? It would be a fine victory over Caleb if she ended up inadvertently going back to Texas. Oh, how he would gloat as she stumbled back into his snare!
“Think, Deborah!” she said out loud to the silent night.
In books, sailors always plotted their course by the stars. Unfortunately, the present clouds did not permit her to see many of those heavenly guides. If she could but locate the North Star, she’d be all right. She and Graham used to “star gaze” in Virginia and had been able to find many of the constellations. The Big Dipper, Orion, Gemini … they knew them all. Of course they had a spy glass to help them, and even they could not locate stars on cloudy days.
But she had one sure guide—the river. She knew she was on the north bank of the Cimarron River. If she made sure not to recross it, she ought to be all right. True, the river had many bends and curves, and if she set off at a point directly perpendicular from the bank, it could take her east or west—but that would be better than south to Texas. She could follow the river in the direction of the setting sun, which would lead her west. Curiously, Deborah had no desire to go back East even if it meant returning once more to Virginia. Somehow she was already sensing her future lay in the West, and, moreover, she was becoming more and more attached to this broad, free, wild land. It suited her, and it suited the person she knew she was becoming.
With the problem of her direction settled in her mind, Deborah all at once felt fatigued. The other problems could wait until morning, not that she could do anything about them anyway. She had no weapons to hunt food, though she recalled reading in some story how a man had shaped a crude spear from a branch and caught fish. She could not quite picture herself, skirt hitched up around her thighs, stalking a trout through the river. But if she meant to survive, she would be forced to do many things contrary to the upbringing of a proper Virginia lady. She had already strayed considerably from that mold. A little more distance would not harm her.
“You weren’t going to think about food now, Deborah,” she chided herself as her stomach began to rumble. “It’s time to sleep.”
With the tree trunk supporting her back, Deborah slid to the ground. She did not like succumbing to her fatigue, but she reminded herself that she had lost much blood from her wound. She had had little or no sleep over the last two days and she was supporting a new life. If she hoped to get anywhere tomorrow, she needed sleep. But the sound of howling wolves drove the notion of sleep even further from her mind.
Then she recalled Griff telling her wolves wouldn’t attack humans. That helped comfort her a bit. Perhaps it was a blessing the horse had gone; its odor would surely have attracted the dangerous beasts. So she finally closed her eyes, not fully convinced, even as tired as she was, that she’d find any rest lying on the hard earth in the chill of the night.
Glaring sunlight woke her the next morning. She had slept soundly for hours. Her body ached, but Sid’s sheepskin coat had kept her fairly warm. A little stretching removed the kinks from her bones and muscles, though her right shoulder continued to radiate pain. Tearing apart her petticoat, she made a crude bandage and sling for her arm, which helped tremendously as she stood and moved about. A close inspection of her wound revealed that the bullet had traveled clean through her arm—a good sign, from what she knew of medical matters. If she kept it clean and free of infection, it should heal properly.
Next, Deborah began to think of breakfast. She had not eaten any food since yesterday morning, and that was only dry, tough jerky and stale biscuits. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for some of that now!
The idea of spearing fish began to look more and more appealing. She cast about beneath the trees for a suitable branch, found one, then spent nearly an hour peeling away the smaller branches from it until she had a fairly clean, straight pole. The narrow end was still rather blunt even after she attempted honing it down with a sharp rock, but it might work.
Feeling a little foolish, she removed her shoes, then carried her stick to the water’s edge and stepped into it quietly. Several fish swam past her feet as she lifted the spear in readiness. But one quick thrust did nothing but cause her to lose her balance and slip on the slimy riverbed. She went down with a splash, legs in the air and skirt billowing around her face. Sputtering and spitting water, she almost giggled at the sight she must have been; only a sharp pain in her arm upon impact sobered her. Undaunted, she scrambled once more to her feet and began all over again. By the tenth futile try she had muddied the water so badly she could not have seen a whale if it had floated by.
Her groaning stomach urged her to keep at it. Carefully, she moved away from the muddy water, then waited for another prey. It came—a nice ten-inch trout. She lifted her stick, took aim.
Thwack!
Great was her surprise when she lifted the stick and saw the wiggling creature impaled on its end. She laughed out loud and waddled out of the river.
What faced her now was perhaps the most difficult part of the whole task. She had no implements to clean the fish, much less cook it. It was raw fish for breakfast, or nothing. Deborah eyed the thing distastefully. Was she really that hungry? In response to the silent inquiry, she almost threw the thing back. But practicality forced her to pause. Perhaps she could skip this meal, but she would have to eat eventually, and she might not be so lucky to catch something next time. This pathetic morsel might be her only sustenance for days. It would be a sin to waste it.
She waited until the creature ceased its struggle with life. She found her sharp rock and managed at least to decapitate the thing and give it a cursory cleaning. Then, taking a deep breath, she raised it to her lips.
Somehow she choked it down and kept it down, drinking deeply from the river afterward. She hoped she would not get hungry again for a very long time.
After that ordeal, she needed a good, long rest. It was almost midday before she began her trek. The river proved a reliable guide, and she felt secure with its sure presence on her left side. But she did not walk down in the river gorge; rather, climbing up the ridge, she paralleled it from higher ground. This way she had a better view of her surroundings, making it less likely for anyone or anything to come upon her unawares. She had no idea what she would do if she was accosted by some unfriendly creature, human or otherwise, but she instinctively knew it was more advantageous to see danger approach than to be caught unawares. She glanced at the stick she carried. It might have mor
e uses than merely hunting food.
Once a mountain man had stopped by the ranch. He was dressed all in buckskin, with a foul odor emanating from him, and tangled, matted hair beneath a beaver-skin cap, rotten teeth, and a bushy unkempt beard. He had come down from the isolated enclave he called home to look for a wife. Deborah had regretted that she had not been available! Now, thinking about him, Deborah wondered if she might not be mistaken for some kind of mountain woman in Sid’s old coat, her tattered, dirty dress hanging damply beneath it, and her grimy body under that. The image was surely furthered by the dusty slouch hat she wore—Griff had loaned it to her—combined with the smudges and bruises on her face, and the primitive spear in her hand.
But as bizarre as her appearance might have been, it somehow seemed more real to her than the ribbons and laces and hooped skirts of a southern lady.
21
Deborah traveled thus for two days, hunger and fatigue her close companions. Only once did she see a sign of another human. On her second afternoon of travel, much to her delight, she spotted a large herd of buffalo in the distance. So enthralled was she at the sight that she dared to leave the security of the river to draw closer.
There were at least several hundred of them grazing placidly on the grassy plain. They were magnificent, with their great shaggy heads and bodies at least as tall as she was, although she did not venture close enough for an accurate measure. She had read accounts by explorers like Lewis and Clark and John Fremont, describing the herds as being so vast as to darken the entire country with their numbers, like a huge, moving forest. This sight made her a believer in what many called wildly exaggerated reports. She had also read how Indians stalked these mighty beasts with nothing but a bow and arrows, or a spear. That was harder to believe, though it must be true since guns were still not plenteous among the Indians. Yet how could a mere shaft of wood bring down such a gigantic creature? If she had anything of value to give, she would not hesitate to sacrifice it in order to witness such a contest.
