Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  He let the Indians do the tracking, choosing to chew on some jerky as they trotted along the animal path. The fringes of their leggings dragged in the wet grass as they crept along. An hour after sunup they spotted the enemy.

  The five men all stooped about a deer carcass. Two skinned and the others butchered. The warrior before him gave a bloodcurdling scream and all eyes focused upon them. Arrows flew from the bows of the Crow. He sighted a Blackfoot warrior, but did not fire. One man fell with four arrows protruding from his chest. Two others dropped behind the fallen deer using the carcass as a shield and returned fire.

  From behind a tree he watched the Crow take down another man with their arrows. Five of the Crow circled behind and now ran from the woods screaming as they fell upon the three remaining men. This was not war—it was a massacre. Another Blackfoot warrior fell and was slit from throat to crotch like a fish, his punctured intestines spilling out on the ground. Nash exhaled sharply against the smell. The remaining two warriors writhed on the ground beside their butchered comrade, and the Crow beat them with their fists.

  Thomas lowered his rifle. Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it back. The dead men lay beside the deer. He smelled enough blood for ten lifetimes. The savagery of the warriors’ attack sickened him. The Crow set to mutilating the bodies, slashing away pieces of the corpses and throwing them at the captured men. Nash turned away. He knew the Blackfoot would do the same if they had won the day.

  The victors tied the hands of the battered warriors and cinched a rope about their necks. Then, the band turned back toward the village, herding their bleeding enemy along before them.

  Thomas knew the fallen warriors were the lucky ones.

  He wondered if these two men were strong enough to bravely endure the tortures ahead. Nash had heard stories at the Rendezvous of what was to come. The words of fellow trappers filled his mind as they approached the village.

  The cries of victory brought an echoing trill from the women of the tribe. People streamed out of the encampment to greet the triumphant warriors and their miserable captives. Sticks and rocks were hurled with insults as the men were dragged forth.

  Thomas turned away and washed in the river. Their blood was on him somehow. The sooner they were away from here, the better for them both.

  Sick at heart, he headed toward the only one capable of quieting him.

  Delia slept in the middle of the hot afternoon. Her face was covered with a sheen of sweat. He frowned.

  Walks About smiled and motioned for him to enter. As she spoke, Delia’s eyes opened. Her amber gaze fell on him and instantly lit a familiar fire within. He smiled.

  “You’re back,” she said.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better.” Her voice sounded weak. He forced a smile for her benefit.

  Walks About flipped back the hide covering her wound, showing the black scab that covered her ankle. He leaned close. The wound was closed and he could not smell any putrid flesh. The skin was only slightly swollen.

  “Do you have a fever?” He pressed his hand to her moist forehead.

  “I did, but I’m better now.”

  He stared at her hot pink cheeks. She was too ill to travel.

  He wanted to leave this place before darkness, before the torture began. He wondered why he felt such urgency. His skin prickled. This uneasy feeling had warned him of danger in the past when he was wise enough to listen. Why now? They were safe enough inside this village.

  “Your foot looks much better,” he said. She smiled. He noticed her eyes glowed too bright. Surely the danger he sensed came from moving her in her present condition. She needed rest.

  He glanced up and noticed Walks About was gone. Someone had named her well. She was no doubt drawn by the excitement of the prisoners. He settled on the fur beside Delia.

  He rested with her while the day melted into night. The pulsing of the village drum woke him. The beat echoed in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut as he thought of what was to come. Soon the ritual slaying of their enemies would begin.

  “Did you find the Blackfoot?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Are all the Crow warriors all right?”

  “No injuries.” Images of the massacre he’d witnessed rose before him once again. His forehead grew damp as memories exploded in his brain. He would spare her this.

  “Are the Blackfoot dead?”

  “They soon will be.” His gaze traveled to the opening of the tepee. The fire’s orange light shone through the gap in the thick buffalo hide.

  “Oh, no—Thomas, what will they do to them?”

  He wouldn’t fill her head with the gruesome stories he’d heard of Indian torture. Even in death the captive would find no peace. They’d slash the corpses, mutilating their spirit, so the men could never again fight against the Crow.

  “They’ll kill them, Delia. That’s all.”

  Her eyes were wide and round as the drumbeat ceased, heralding the beginning.

  “What shall we do?”

  “Nothing. This is their way.”

  “But Thomas, it’s a sin to kill an unarmed man. It’s a crime against God.”

  “Delia, this is their country, their tribe and their way of doing things. They never heard of your God. You can’t stop this. All you can do is get well so we can leave.”

  “You’re right, Thomas. Of course you are.”

  He stroked her hair as the chanting began. Her body trembled against his. Her skin was still too warm. He lowered his head and prayed her fever would break.

  She fell asleep after a time. He studied her lovely face illuminated by firelight. He would see her through this and to safety. She was right about not belonging here. And he thought she’d be happy here with him. His gaze traveled over her body. But oh, how he’d miss her. She was his partner. Somehow, the notion of taking a new trail without her filled him with melancholy. What could he do? You better think of something—or you’ll lose her.

  “Thomas? I was wrong, you know,” she said, waking up.

  “About what?”

  “About everything. I’ve been blaming you for all my faults. I’m so sorry.”

  That’s the fever talking. He checked her forehead. Her skin still felt warm. Not too warm.

  “Don’t talk now—rest,” he said.

  “I missed you. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  What would happen if he did not return? She’d be adopted and marry a Crow warrior, if she’d have him. They wouldn’t bring her home. No, that was his job.

  “We got to get you back East,” he said.

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “What are you saying?” He tried to see her face, now merely an outline in the dying firelight. He could see no detail, no expression to guide him.

  “I realized something. I’ve been fighting so hard, I couldn’t see it until now.”

  “Hush—now, rest.”

  “I don’t want to rest. I have to tell you. First, I was fighting to find John, and then I was fighting to stay alive. Then I came to you and I’ve been fighting ever since.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “I didn’t want those feeling for you. It was too frightening. So I fought them and you. I blamed your heathen ways and rough language. They were all excuses. I couldn’t admit it. Now I can. I’m not afraid anymore.”

  “Admit what, Delia?” This rambling frightened him. Fever was the same as whiskey. Both loosened the tongue.

  “I’m in love with you, Thomas.”

  He sat up. “What?”

  “I love you. I don’t want to leave you, ever.”

  He held her shoulders tight, wishing, praying this was real. His eyes stared into the darkness at the face he could not see. What was the matter? He knew her face better than his own. Please, let this not be the fever.

  “You won’t,” he said. “We’ll sell the furs and then take our money and go anywhere you say. We could buy som
e livestock or land, maybe we could open a trading post.”

  “Thomas, you feel the same?”

  “I do.”

  “I think you are the most wonderful man in the world.”

  She threw her arms about him. He held her close, inhaling her heady scent. Give me the chance, Lord. I’ll do right by her.

  The eerie sounds of singing filled the air. Here in this little circle of leather, he’d keep her safe and she’d keep him warm.

  He dozed for a time, then startled awake. The night sounds changed. The chant grew in volume until the screams rang in the air. She gripped his shirt.

  “What is it?”

  “They’re nearly done.”

  “It’s horrible. I’ll never forget the sound.”

  How much better that she did not have the images to go with it. Her body trembled like a captured bird.

  “It’s all right. I’m here. We’re safe. Close your eyes.” He murmured, replacing the sounds of terror with words of comfort.

  His fingers brushed her cheek. She was cool. He sighed in relief. Her fever was gone.

  “Delia, do you remember what you said before?”

  “About loving you?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “That was it.”

  In the morning she took her first steps. Thomas held her about the waist and helped her along. The scab cracked, blood trickled down her foot and onto the yellow grass.

  He led her away from the center of the scattered group of tepees. Whatever horrors had taken place during the night, Delia saw no traces now.

  They passed several men and women. Each nodded, some smiled. They acted as if this was an ordinary day, not the day after a barbaric execution. Thomas had tried to protect her from the torture by whispering in her ear and changing the subject when the screams forced her to ask what the Crow did to their enemies. The questions and possibilities were worse than seeing. She would never understand these people.

  “Let’s sit awhile,” he said. Thomas guided her to the grass beside the Bighorn River. The water rolled gently along.

  “It’s nothing like the mountain rivers, is it?”

  “Nope. There it dances along like it’s in a hurry. Here the water just sidles.”

  He broke off a blade of grass and chewed on the end, twirling it around and around in his fingers. She followed his gaze to the southeast. Jagged mountains tore at the sky. This delay must frustrate him.

  “Is that where we are going?” she asked.

  “Down the Bighorn. We’ll follow that a ways. We still have nearly a hundred and fifty miles of rough country ahead.”

  No wonder he was anxious. His packhorse was staggering under the furs he had collected and the fur companies would soon gather to lighten his load.

  “When will we leave?”

  He tossed the grass away and lowered his gaze, from the mountain peaks, to her face.

  “Soon, Delia, very soon.”

  The next day she managed to walk about without assistance. Her scab held, thanks to the ointment Rising Smoke gave her.

  Thomas found her that afternoon with Walks About. They were slicing elk into small pieces for stew.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “All right.” She gave him a broad smile, but he did not return it. Instead he rubbed his neck. She knew that gesture. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Something don’t feel right.”

  She stared into his eyes. His gaze darted up to the mountains then down to the river. She’d never seen him so restless.

  He stood before her. “I got to check the horses. Come along.”

  She pointed in the direction she would go and Walks About nodded, shooing her with a hand.

  The moccasin did not pain her foot as she walked along with him. His step was slow, making it easy for her to keep stride. His horse caught his scent and nickered before she could even see the animal. The packhorse was staked on a lead to a grove of white poplar. Within the cover of trees and brush, his horse escaped the heat and ever-present flies.

  She stroked the velvety nose of his mount as Thomas checked the hooves.

  “I got our gear all packed, over there.” He motioned with his head.

  She saw it then, a pile of furs and sundries peeking out from beneath a buffalo robe. She clenched her jaw. Her injury had delayed him and all because of a misstep.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?” He dropped the last hoof and looked over the horse’s withers at her.

  “For keeping you. Will we still make the Rendezvous?”

  “We’ll make her all right.” He gave the horse’s chest two quick slaps and watched the dust rise in the air. Then he turned from the cover of trees. She watched him look about the village. “I don’t know why, but I’m jumpy as a bug on a griddle.”

  She ambled toward the packhorse. It blew heavily from his nose in greeting.

  A wild cry tore the still air. Her body startled and the horses’ ears lay flat.

  She turned to Thomas to find his gaze pinned on the clearing.

  “What in the world?” she asked.

  “Blackfoot,” he said, already pulling her to the ground.

  Answering cries rose from the village as the Crow warriors grabbed their weapons and braced for the attack.

  She watched Thomas draw a rope from his bag and throw it over the horse’s neck. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the cluster of trees. From the glade she peered onto the plain below. Indians poured from the woods behind them onto the open field.

  “Blood tribe, a whole angry mess of them. Damn, my harnesses are down there.”

  “What should we do?”

  He handed her his pistol and checked his rifle. The shotgun remained tied to his back.

  “We’ll stick here and hope they don’t see us.”

  Below them the Crow warriors ran up the hill toward their attackers. She could see Grazing Bull lift a bow and fire. Her gaze shot to Rising Smoke’s teepee. There on the edge of the village, Walks About ran toward the river. Behind her the Blackfoot forces closed in. Delia saw a club lifted high and swing down. Her gaze crashed to the ground with her friend’s limp body.

  A cry tore from her lips as she began to rise. “We have to help them.”

  His strong hand gripped tight and she spun about to face him. “You can’t help them by getting killed.”

  “But they’re dying!”

  “You can’t save them, Delia. This fight is as old as these plains.”

  His image swam before her as the tears welled up and over her lids, running fast and hot down her cheeks. She threw herself against his wide chest using the soft leather of his shirt to muffle her sobs.

  The cries and screams went on and on. Now came the smell of burning. She looked up to see black smoke billow above the village.

  He set her away from him. “Stay there.”

  He went to his furs and began to tie the beaver plew onto the horse. He fashioned two rough halters from his rope and tied the packhorse to his own.

  “We got to go, Delia. They’ll comb the woods for stragglers.”

  He boosted her up and led the horse from their protective island in the sea of grass. The tree line was fifty feet away. They’d never make it unnoticed. Her head pivoted about at the mayhem below.

  “Thomas, how do you know they aren’t watching from the woods?”

  His voice was grim. “I don’t.”

  She gripped the horse’s mane more tightly as they entered the forest. Here the cries died away and the birdsong came to her. The smell of smoke was replaced by the smell of warm cedar. He paused only long enough to mount behind her. She leaned against the reassuring mass of his hard chest muscles.

  He avoided the animal trail to their left, heading instead through the brush and rough ground. Her ears strained for some sign of pursuit. The rattle of dry leaves brought both their heads swinging about to find a jay searching for bugs on the forest floor.

  For several miles
they picked along, silent except for the fall of the horses’ hooves.

  “Have we lost them?” she asked.

  “Maybe, if they don’t find our trail. Damn, I should have known better.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “South, we’ll follow the Bighorn.”

  Thomas stopped the horses. She sighed and stretched her tired back. He sat erect, listening. At first there were only the usual sounds, the wind in the trees. She wondered why there were no birdcalls. Then she heard the pounding of many hooves.

  “Damnation,” he cried, and kicked the horse to a gallop.

  She clung to the horse’s mane, craning her neck to see past him. The trail was empty behind them. She glanced ahead and saw a rocky hill. He spurred the horse, wheeling for the high ground.

  “I see them,” she yelled.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Several Blackfoot warriors rode hard on their trail.

  Thomas drew his knife and cut the line holding the packhorse. The animal veered to the right down the hill. Four men followed the loose horse.

  The rest rode on, like the hounds of hell, screaming as they closed the distance.

  The ground rose sharply. She gripped the horse’s mane as she slid back against Thomas. Fear swelled in her throat. What if an arrow hit his back?

  Below the Indians slowed, picking their way more carefully. The boulders about them blocked her view of the enemy for a moment.

  They’ll kill Thomas, if they catch him. She knew they would. What would they do to her? A vision of the war club coming down on Walks About’s head filled her mind.

  Thomas slid to the ground and pulled her after him.

  “Too steep,” he said, and slapped the horse back down the trail.

  He grabbed his rifle in one hand and her hand in the other as they dashed up the rocky cliff face. He dodged behind boulders and over rock, pulling her along. Her foot burned white-hot with each step. She knew if she stumbled, he would stop. God, please don’t let me fall. He stopped before a crack in the rock at his feet. The fissure was three feet wide and filled with dead leaves.

  Thomas looked back and she followed his gaze. They were not there. He probed the gap with the butt of his rifle. The barrel disappeared to the stock.