by Jenna Kernan
“What happened?”
He held up a dark brown pebble for her examination.
“I took this out of your foot yesterday.”
She reached for the grisly trophy.
“Why, it’s wood!”
“The sapling,” he corrected. “Must of broke off in there. You’ll mend now.” Quickly he applied a clean bandage. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. I have a headache.”
He nodded, then offered her a cup of water and elk jerky.
“I have to see to the horses. Do you need anything before I go?”
She shook her head and watched him disappear. When she was certain he was gone, she rose, trembling slightly. Her foot felt so much better. She stepped gingerly forward keeping her heel from touching the rock. Slowly she left the overhang and made her way behind a boulder to relieve herself. Cautiously she tried to put weight on her heel. The hot poker instantly sprang to life. Too soon for that, she decided, and walked back to the skins using only the toes of her injured foot. Once there, she lay panting, her body trembling like a leaf before a thunderstorm. Why was she so weak?
She returned to the hide and sank gratefully onto the soft fur. She dozed on and off throughout the morning. He brought her two grouse and roasted the birds with wild onions. The sweet bulbs gave the meal a rich flavor. After eating, her strength returned, seeping through her like coffee into hot water.
“Your color is better,” he said.
She smiled, then noticed his tired lines and red-rimmed eyes. He looked exhausted.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
“You patched me up. My turn to do the same.”
He moved close. She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. Her body longed to accept the arm that was wrapped protectively about her shoulders. The image of her husband haunted her. This was wrong.
She lifted his arm and slipped away. He let her go, only his gaze following.
“Tell me about the dreams, Delia,” he said.
The silence stretched on between them, stark and lonely.
“I don’t want to talk about them.”
“That was from the Yellow Moccasin. ’Tweren’t real. They are visions, the Indians say. I say they are nightmares.”
“They were horrible.” She shuddered and held her hands to her eyes as the tiny devils danced through her memory. Evil, twisted faces delighted in her pain.
“I’m sorry I gave it to you. I didn’t want you to feel the pain of the knife.”
She looked up into his sad eyes. He tried to help her. Were they just dreams? No, they were more.
“I saw John,” she said. Nash’s brows descended low over his eyes. “He said, ‘Be good.’”
“That was your own mind talking to you.”
“No, it was more. I could feel him. He’s with me even now.”
Nash moved uncomfortably and cleared his throat.
“Delia, I think you should forget about them. Try to put them aside.”
“I never will. It was he. He spoke to me. Oh, Thomas, I am so ashamed of what we’ve done. So ashamed.”
“You got no cause.”
She looked into his eyes. Men were so different than women. He really thought this was all fine.
“Thomas, I want you to keep your distance. I’ll work and cook, but I refuse to be your, your—”
“My what? My whore?” He was on his feet now. His fists spoke of the anger surging through him. “I treated you with respect, always. If that’s what you think we had, I feel sorry for you and all your shriveled-up, self-righteous Bible-thumpers!” He shouted at her.
“At least I’ve read the Bible. You don’t even say grace.” She heard her voice rise to a shriek.
“I treated you like my woman. And you—you turn it into something dirty.”
“You never made an honorable proposal.”
“They was all honorable.” His voice was low now, like a growling bear. He turned his back and stalked down the trail.
She held her bottom lip tight between her teeth until he was out of sight. Then the sob came rapidly, making her shoulders jump up and down like a dancing man.
Now she had lost Thomas, too.
Nash was angry enough to spit blood. She had made him lose his temper. He shouted, as if the woods weren’t a nest of hostile Indians and she wasn’t sick with fever. He had taken care to hide their tracks and avoid the river, and had secreted her in the cave. Then, he stood before her and howled like a rabid coyote. This was the cost of bringing a woman along.
She didn’t care about him. Oh, she wanted his body. But afterward their lovemaking made her feel dirty. He wasn’t good enough, oh no. She was God’s chosen one, for Pete’s sake. And what did that make him, the devil’s instrument? He snorted and kicked a stone into the river.
Why was he so upset? If she didn’t want him, better still. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty leaving her at the Rendezvous in a few weeks.
He didn’t feel any better. Somehow her opinion of him was the most important thing. He wanted her body, of course he did. But he wanted more. He wanted her respect and her love. If she wasn’t always looking down her nose at the way he ate and talked, and the fact that he didn’t attend church, he might have asked her to marry him. Not now, that was certain. Now he knew just what she thought of him.
And where was he supposed to find a church and a minister out here? Men he knew just took a squaw and that was that. They’d have a wife until they made their fortunes and moved East. Some men stayed—a few did. Delia would never settle for that. No, she’d want a church built right here in the damn woods. Probably make him ride back to St. Louis to get her a veil. Well, he’d be damned first, if he weren’t already.
He picked up a stone and skipped it. The rock bounced off the surface four times before disappearing into the water.
He heard the arrow strike the tree beside him. He was on the ground and aiming before he even looked around. No more arrows followed. He looked up at the red bands near the flashing. Crow.
Delia heard Nash approach. She didn’t call out. He had told her the area was loaded with Blackfoot. When she saw the Indian behind him, she held back a scream. Where was her shotgun? Her gaze fixed on the weapon beside the cold fire pit. She grabbed a gun and crept silently back into the shadow of the overhanging rock.
Then she noticed Nash still carried his gun.
“Delia,” he called, “Come out.”
She did so, rising cautiously to her feet.
“Who are they?” She studied the three men before her.
“Mountain Crow. Show them your foot.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid it will fester again and they knows things I don’t.”
She sat on the fur and untied the leather binding. The three men squatted about her, staring at the injury. She listened to their strange garbled speech and watched their faces for some reaction.
“Do you understand them?” she asked.
“Not a word.”
Then they stood and faced Nash. They signed to him and he nodded.
“We’re going with them,” he said.
“What? I don’t want to go with them.”
“We’re going.”
A few minutes later she sat on the horse behind Nash. This was too close. His scent raised memories of his body lying on hers. How could she be so weak? Think of something else.
After several hours she didn’t have to search for a distraction. It was there with each beat of her heart magnified in her foot. She could feel her toes grow stiff with the swelling. Could there be pieces of that infernal stick still in her foot?
She heard the barking of dogs. A moment later they appeared, yapping and jumping around the horses. Next she saw several sentry on the rocks above the river. They waved to the men before her.
“How do you know they don’t mean to kill us?” she asked.
“Could have done that anytime. Mountain Crow are thieves, not killers. They never done no harm to nobod
y I know, except Blackfoot.”
She considered this as she saw the tops of their dwellings appear before her above the high grass. There were perhaps forty large conical tents covered with the hides of buffalo neatly stitched and stretched. She studied the paintings that decorated the outside of several of the dwellings. Drawings of horses and buffalo were most common. All about her was the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat.
In a few moments the entire village seemed to be gathered to see the strangers. The warriors descended and spoke with several old men. Chiefs? she wondered. They were not dressed any differently from the rest. Nash slid off the horse and strode gracefully to the group. He raised his open hand and they did the same.
He spoke to them. The chief did not seem to understand. He held up a hand for Nash to stop. A few moments of silence passed. Nash helped her to the ground. Then they were ushered into one of the large tents.
Inside, the grass was covered with animal hides. In the center of the tent a fire burned low. The men sat around the pit. A young girl with twin black braids motioned to her to sit behind the men. She eased herself down and stretched her sore foot out before her. The girl offered her a horn cup filled with what tasted like berry juice. Delia smiled and nodded her thanks.
The man already seated in the tent spoke to Nash.
“He speaks Flathead,” Thomas said. “He was captured eight years ago.” He turned his attention to the conversation, and Delia was ignored for several minutes. One of the younger men rose and left through the little tent flap. He returned with an old man.
“Delia, this here’s their medicine man, Smoke Rising. Let him look at your foot.”
“My foot is fine,” she insisted. His eyes narrowed at the lie. She could barely stand the burning itch, which grew by the minute.
Nash unwrapped her foot. Delia’s eyes opened wide at the sight. The swelling had returned and yellow pus oozed from the punctures of his stitches. She raised her gaze to Thomas.
“You’ll be all right now. Smoke Rising will take care of it.”
She allowed the old man to pinch and poke at her with thick fingers. She winced but did not cry out.
“He says you’re a brave woman,” said Nash. “You’re going to his tent, now.”
“Don’t leave me.” She had no right to ask it, not after what she had said to him. She told him to leave her alone. Now she was afraid he would.
“I’ll be with you.”
He lifted her into his arms. If only she had his strength. Nothing frightened him. His gaze held hers and she drew peace from the blue depths of his eyes. He was with her.
Nash strode behind the silver-haired man. His long braid was the color of smoke rising. The Indian opened the flap to his tent and motioned them inside. Within was an old woman with thinning white hair and few teeth. The captured Flathead Indian followed Nash into the dwelling.
She listened to the medicine man speak for a time. Her gaze moved about the interior, considering the bundles of plants tied to the wooden supports. The dwelling was full of the sweet, musty smell of drying plants. Before her, coals in a central fire pit glowed around an earthen jar, blackened from smoke.
Smoke Rising lit a bundle of dried grass the size of a cigar. The smoke smelled fragrant, like a spice.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Sweetgrass. It purifies the spirit.”
The old man fanned his hand, bringing the smoke to him as he inhaled.
The old woman washed Delia’s foot in some kind of green oil, then gently dabbed her skin clean. The pounding ache grew worse.
“Drink this,” said Thomas as the woman handed her a cup.
“What is it?”
“Running Fox tells me it will just deaden the pain. Drink.”
She looked at the brownish water and remembered the last time she’d deadened the pain. The little devils with sharp spears rose up in her mind. Thomas said it was the medicine.
“Go on,” he urged.
“No.”
She wondered if he could see the determination in her eyes.
“It’s gonna hurt like hell,” he warned. She was silent, but her gaze never left his. “All right then.”
He returned the brew to the woman. The medicine man showed Thomas how to hold her foot. Her skin grew damp as fear and anticipation washed together.
Smoke Rising grasped a short blade. He sliced through the leather stitches that held her skin closed. The blade seemed to cut her flesh. Her muscles tensed but managed to keep still. The air rushed in and out of her lungs.
She peered past Nash to see the pus draining around the black scab. Smoke Rising grasped the gut thread in his thick fingers and gave a sharp tug. She gasped as the leather passed through her skin. Before she could exhale, he pulled the next one and the next. One drawing pain followed the next. Her hair was wet with sweat when the pain stopped.
“Is he finished?” Her hopes were dashed by the slow shake of Nash’s head. The medicine man spoke to the woman. She handed him a gourd filled with water and a brush with stiff bristles. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Boar’s hair brush,” said Thomas.
A shiver of fear stole up her spine. Then Nash’s hands clamped tight about her ankle and a burning agony captured her leg. This is how the beaver feels, she thought, when the trap closes. She understood now how they could chew off their own foot. If only she could reach her foot. Anything to stop the pain. A scream tore from her lips as the torture continued. Her senses dimmed suddenly. She welcomed the blackness that enveloped her.
She woke to a rhythmic prodding. Each touch sent a bolt of searing pain. They were burning her. She sat up and was immediately restrained by Thomas. He held her, keeping her arms pinned to her sides.
“Nearly done,” he said.
The old medicine man hunched over her foot. She could see the raw tissue. Her skin was rubbed away, leaving a sticky, oozing wound.
“It looks dreadful,” she said.
“Not for long. Lie back.” He didn’t wait for her to obey, but pushed her into a reclining position. He was right, better not to see. She gritted her teeth at the jabbing. When his hand finally left her, a dull throbbing ache remained.
She lay with her hand draped across her damp brow. The sound of conversation drifted past her. She focused on the wooden poles above, watching the gray smoke curling to the sky.
“It’s done,” said Thomas. She looked into his blue eyes. They were brighter than the piece of sky she saw through the smoke. “Rising Smoke says you are strong.”
“Are they going to leave it uncovered?”
“Yes. Walks About, his wife, will look after you.”
They placed a little frame made of sticks over her foot and draped the wood with a deer hide. “That will keep the flies off until it scabs up.”
“Where are you going?” She started to reach for his hand and stopped. He stared at her, as her withdrawing fingers fell back to the pallet.
“I have to speak with the elders,” he said and waited for her reaction.
The anticipated panic at separating never came. She glanced at the stranger beside the fire who blinked at her and then back to the man she trusted. He needed to go and she could not follow. She would not be more of a burden than necessary.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
She lifted her chin and smiled. “I know you will.”
Chapter Fifteen
Nash followed Smoke Rising to the largest tepee on the plain. He stooped to enter. On the inside of the tent, he found men sitting in a circle around a small fire of hot coals.
Nash nodded at Kicking Elk, the Flathead translator.
The man turned to a serious-looking fellow with black hair and a wrinkled face and spoke to him. Nash waited patiently. “This is the chief, Grazing Bull. He wonders if you have seen our enemy recently?”
Nash gazed at the chief while speaking to Kicking Elk. “I saw a group of five Blackfoot warriors yesterday near where your men found us.”
The chief asked several more questions about the direction they traveled, how they were armed and if they were mounted. Nash answered them honestly, for he had no love for the Blackfoot.
Nash waited as the men discussed his information. He noticed how each man gave his full attention to the speaker. No one interrupted and each spoke methodically in turn. The air was still and warm. Nash wished his chest was bare as well. His shirt stuck to his damp flesh.
“Is there anything else you wish to say?” asked Kicking Elk.
“Tell him I am grateful for his kindness to my woman. The Crow are a great people to help those in need. I wish to make him a gift to show my respect for your tribe.” Nash pulled his trade goods from his possibles bag. He laid red ribbon on the hide before the chief. Beside that he added pearl buttons and a handful of metal awls. Finally he rested a metal knife blade, still without a handle, beside the other offerings.
Grazing Bull distributed the ribbon, buttons and awls to his men, keeping only the knife for himself. Kicking Elk’s deep voice rumbled again. “He accepts your gifts. You and your woman are welcome to stay as long as you like. He also extends a great honor. He invites you to join them on a raid. Our braves will find these Blackfoot warriors. He says you may be lucky and take a scalp.”
Now he was stuck. He had no desire to run off and fight this man’s battles. To refuse would be an insult and he would have to leave. Delia was too ill.
“I am honored.”
At sundown they came upon his old camp. The fifteen braves slept with him on the little ledge above the river.
Nash lay on the warm sand, his head resting on his bag. This was the first time he’d been apart from her since her arrival in the spring. He hoped the pain did not keep her awake and wondered if the wound had begun to mend.
He rolled to his back again trying to find a comfortable position. He needed her little body to coil about. My God, I can’t even sleep without her. The night passed in restless longing. He was happy to see the stars grow dim and the sky turn steel-gray.
He checked his rifle again and readied his shot and powder. Without his horse, he carried only the essentials of war: his rifle, pistol, shot, powder and knife.
