Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  The craft hadn’t been maneuverable. Bridger had been at the river’s mercy. Nash knew a lighter craft would steer better; it would also swamp in rough water.

  As they descended from the rocks he spotted buffalo five hundred yards away. She stared in at the herd. There must be seven hundred animals, all quietly grazing in the tall grass.

  “I need a stick.” He held his hand up before his chest. “Yea high, with a fork in the top.”

  Delia scrambled off the rock to look as he studied the animals. He needed a big one. She returned dragging a thick branch.

  He stuck the end in a crack in the rock face and rested his rifle barrel in the notch. Closing one eye, he aimed below the shoulder for the lung and squeezed the trigger. A blast of acrid smoke belched from the end of the gun.

  Delia faced the herd. The buffalo grazed as before.

  “You missed.”

  He smiled. A large bull bent his knees, going slowly down on his front feet as he lowered himself to the ground. About him the herd continued to graze. Finally the bull laid his head gently on the earth.

  “Got him.”

  Delia looked at him in puzzlement, then turned to the field again.

  “Who?”

  Several of the buffalo lay in the sun chewing their cud. Only one lay with his head on the ground.

  He fired two more shots at the feet of another big bull. He bellowed and ran, leading the herd away from the river, leaving the one lone animal lying in the field.

  “Oh, Thomas, that is truly amazing.”

  The afternoon was spent skinning and cleaning the hide. Delia sliced the meat in thin strips to dry for jerky.

  They gathered buffalo chips to smoke the meat and speed the drying.

  “We’ll wait until dark and start a fire over there in those rocks and dry as much as we can. You stay and slice her up and I’ll go see about the raft.”

  He returned to the river and cut sandbar willow. He chose green wood at least two inches thick. Usually an inch was more than enough, but not for this trip.

  He cut and staked the pieces in the ground, forming arching wickets. Then he ran one long branch across the others, forming the boat’s bottom. He used green rawhide from the buffalo’s legs to lash the wood together.

  He glanced at the sky. The light was nearly gone. He found Delia laying the fire, adding dry grass beneath the chips.

  “We can start her now,” he said.

  She knelt beside the grass and struck the steel to flint until a spark jumped to the grass. She blew and the spark blazed to life. He smiled with pride. He’d taught her that.

  Above the coals she’d fashioned green-wood racks of buffalo meat. He looked at the sky and watched the first stars cut through the darkening heavens.

  He pulled the frame up by the fire. He added a thick three-inch gunwale, lashing it to the frame. Delia helped drag the wet skin to his craft, where he up-ended the boat frame onto the furry hide.

  Delia held the leather as he fixed it in place over the gunwale. He stood back to survey his work.

  “The skin looks a bit baggy,” she said.

  “It’ll shrink tight. That’s why we have to tie it before it’s dry.”

  “Oh.” She nodded, looking at the shaggy boat.

  He decided to tie some beams across the gunwales to add strength.

  “Will it hold?”

  “Delia, I’ve seen these boats carry three men, sixty steel traps and five hundred furs, plus guns and ammunition. She’ll hold.” Until they hit the rapids. If she takes water, she’ll flounder.

  “Then why are you frowning?” she asked.

  Tell her. “I’m worried about rough water. She might swamp.”

  Delia studied the boat. “Why not cover the top as well. Then the water will roll off the hide and back into the river.”

  His jaw dropped open. He grabbed her in his arms and hugged her. “Delia, that’s it!”

  He kissed her soundly. Instantly his joy galvanized. Her mouth was soft and yielding. Her fingers grazed his back. He pulled her closer and let his tongue delve into her sweet mouth.

  She sank to the ground and he followed her. Her fingers tugged at him, insistent, wanting. This was all that mattered, just Delia and nothing else.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Delia smiled remembering the night. Everything between them was all right. Her worries were just that. His touch was sure and his passions rose with her own.

  She reached for him and found his place empty. He’d gone hunting. She remembered him telling her. Had he kissed her cheek? She didn’t recall.

  Somehow his touch washed away all her fatigue and uncertainty. In his arms, she was powerful and unafraid. How lucky they were.

  She rose and washed, before returning to cut more strips from the buffalo. A rustling alerted her. She glanced up from the carcass to see the wolves trotting low to the ground and fast. They formed a semicircle about her. As she focused on the pack, they rose to full height and charged forward like seasoned soldiers.

  She lifted the shotgun and fired one barrel at the closest animal. She missed.

  The second barrel of shot took down the lead wolf. The others halted at the body of their twitching comrade. She darted toward the willows fifty yards away. Her legs pumped madly at the ground, matching the wild beat of her heart. Any moment she expected a wolf to take her heel and bring her to the ground. They’d tear her apart.

  She jumped for the low branches and scrambled up the tree. Only then did she look back and see the wolves. None had pursued her. From her perch on the tree limb she saw them surrounding the buffalo carcass. She could hear the noisy growl and yip as they fought for the best pieces. The animal she shot lay beside the pack, licking his bleeding shoulder. She hoped they did not find the strips of meat drying beyond the rocks.

  “Delia!”

  “I’m here,” she called.

  “Stay in the trees. I’m coming.”

  She could see him now, trotting along the riverbank to the north. He stopped below her and climbed up the tree.

  “You hurt?” She shook her head. He turned toward the pack. “Did they get our stores?”

  “Not yet, only the carcass.”

  “They’re welcome to that. If they take one step toward the jerky, I’ll kill them.”

  They waited in the trees as the animals ate their fill. Finally the last lumbered off behind the others, his belly swollen with meat.

  He helped her down.

  “I heard your shot and came running. I got our elk, but I left it back in the woods.”

  “You better go get it, or they’ll have that, too.”

  “Not that bunch. You be all right?”

  “Oh, fine.” She waited until he was out of sight to sink to the earth. Her legs now turned to water and her hands shook like an old woman’s.

  He returned as she packed the dried meat. He skinned the elk and the process began again. By afternoon he had covered the boat in two overlapping hides that could be rolled forward and lashed together. They could sit between the two flaps, covered from the waist down.

  “It might work.”

  She gathered huckleberries along the stream as he carved two paddles from green cottonwood.

  “We’re ready,” he said.

  After their meal of elk steaks and berries, he mixed the ash from the fire with elk tallow making a gray paste. This he spread thickly on all the places the rawhide pierced the bull boat and where the elk was sewn to the buffalo.

  “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Why not now?” She’d prefer not staying so close to the buffalo and elk remains, not with the wolves about.

  “Not even Indians travel the river at night. You can’t see the dangers. We’ll sleep back on the knoll. Best to be away from the carcasses.”

  The wolves’ howls split the still air that night. Their voices came from a long way off.

  In the morning, they saw a grizzly with two nearly grown cubs feasting on the buffalo. Delia shuddered
as she remembered the power in those thick arms.

  It only took a moment to load the provisions and their two bags. Thomas extended his hand and guided her into the craft.

  “Sit there.” He indicated the bow. She lowered herself to the buffalo skin, expecting it to sag beneath her. It felt as if it were a hardwood floor instead of a dried hide.

  She looked back to see him push off the sandy shore and hop in behind her. He steered out to the middle of the water and soon the current pulled them slowly toward their destination.

  The sun rose above them. All around was the smell of leather. She handed him some jerky and he passed her the water skin. She chewed slowly as she watched the riverbank roll by. She tried paddling a while and then rested. Trying to keep up with Nash was impossible. Her best guess was that they had already come twenty miles. That was more than they could make in the entire day. The narrow riverbed gave way to rising hills with high mountains beyond. Nash said they were the Bighorns.

  In the afternoon, the river ran swiftly along and Nash needed only to steer, keeping them in the center, away from the rocks that occasionally cropped up. The wind rushed by cooling her skin. She smiled and turned toward the pleasant breeze.

  “Isn’t this lucky?” she asked. “You don’t even have to paddle.”

  “Delia, start unrolling the top piece and tie it down.”

  “Why? The river looks clear.”

  “Not for long.”

  She followed his gaze. The banks of the river rose to sheer cliffs. Between the cleft in the rocks the river narrowed. Suddenly she was aware of the sound of rushing water. Ahead, white water pounded against the rock.

  Her fingers tugged the first elk skin into position and she cinched the laces, covering the right half of the boat. He stopped steering and helped her roll the second skin into place and tied the rawhide up the center about his waist.

  “Lie down, Delia, stay down.”

  She shook her head and tied the laces tight about her body, down the center of the boat. Then she grabbed the paddle and turned to face the river.

  “When I say right, you paddle for all you’re worth on that side.”

  “Yes,” she called. Already the river roared, tearing her words away as she spoke.

  Ahead, the water frothed and foamed, spraying up, rolling off her buckskin and across the top of their little boat.

  “It’s getting dark!” she yelled.

  “We’re in a canyon.” He sounded so far behind her.

  She looked up. Above her, like light through a tunnel, she spied blue sky. Here on the river the steep walls of rock cast them in perpetual twilight. The world around turned an eerie greenish-gray.

  “Left!”

  She dug her paddle into the water. The river nearly pulled the handle from her. She wrestled free and stabbed again and again at the living wave.

  “Hold!”

  She held the paddle before her like a shield and gasped to breathe as the spray rolled in droplets off her face and hair. Her body jerked in surprise as she saw the large group of rocks shoot by her left side. She glanced forward. The river turned sharply left.

  The boat was caught in rolling whitewater. She watched the waves before her crash against the rocky wall before turning.

  “Left!” His voice bellowed.

  Again she stabbed at the water, pulling with all her might against the awesome force of the river. Were they turning? She could not tell. Yes, they were. The wall loomed ahead. Not enough, they were going to hit.

  A scream tore from her lips as the wave threw their boat up against the cliff. She raised her paddle to push free. The wood cracked in two. Then they hit. The right side of the bull boat collapsed as it turned in the air. The bottom scraped against the rock and they rode high along the canyon wall for an instant. Then they fell, back to the raging current. She was sucked beneath the surface and tried clawing at the water. She could not free herself from the lashings. Cold black water swirled about her. Helpless, she was dragged along with the buffalo skin and shattered willow. Her lungs burned for air too long denied.

  The boat popped to the surface like a cork released from the river’s hand. Delia sputtered and threw the sodden hair from her face. Was he there or had he succeeded in tearing himself free of the boat? She turned. Nash howled at their near miss. He called something, but his words were stolen by the river’s roar.

  They shot down the canyon at speeds she could not even imagine.

  “Right!”

  She looked at her hand and was surprised to see it still held the remains of her paddle. She gripped the slick wood and tried to catch hold of the rolling waves.

  She glanced at the side of the boat she had seen collapse. Somehow it had sprung back into place. The green wood, she thought, flexible as a bow.

  Before her, the river disappeared as the boat sailed over the falls. God, protect us. The river tumbled down a watery staircase jarring her bones. Rocks scraped along the hide beneath her. The skin now sagged from the frame as the water soaked the buffalo hide.

  Suddenly she was turning about. She looked at the falls they had just descended as they spun in a whirlpool.

  “Left!”

  She gripped the air. Her paddle was gone. She leaned to the left and pulled with both hands.

  As suddenly as the whirlpool had grabbed them, it spit them out, throwing their sodden craft loose again. She faced downstream once more. The huge rocks loomed in the center of the water, parting the river like the fin of a great fish.

  Giant logs rolled in the tumbling water before the mighty rock. She watched them split in two like matchsticks. She turned to say goodbye to Thomas and found him pulling his paddle through the water with all his might.

  Looking forward, she saw he had managed to send them toward the right channel. The boat shot past the net of fallen logs before the giant rock. They bounced off the stones like a rubber ball and back into the tumbling water.

  Up and down the rapids they fell, as they rode straight in the center of the gap. Gradually the roaring diminished. They bobbed along, but the spray did not blind her. She looked up and watched as the canyon eased back to the river.

  The gap widened and instantly the water slowed. She looked back at the hellish canyon in wonder. How had they survived?

  Then she focused on Nash. He still pulled his paddle swiftly through the water, as though he had not noticed the danger was behind them.

  “We made it!” she called. Her joy tumbled into her words. “Nash, we did it!”

  He did not answer or pause, focusing all his energy on his frantic strokes.

  Her skin relayed a desperate message. There was water in the boat. The icy river had found a gap and now poured over her legs. She glanced frantically about. He steered toward the shore. But the river ran swift and the shore was a nest of jagged rocks. Ahead lay a sandbank as the river took a turn. She could tell that was his target, their only hope. She tried to judge the distance and their speed. It would be close, very close.

  Sand scraped the bottom and she released the breath she held. They had made it.

  He drew his knife and slashed at the binding holding him to the boat. He cut and pulled her free as well, then threw her toward the bank and turned to wrestle the boat from the river.

  She landed in two feet of water and still the current dragged at her legs, trying to sweep her feet from beneath her.

  Delia reached back and grasped his shirt, then dug her heels into the sand and pulled with all her might. Before her lay a fallen tree, cast upon the sandbar. Her fingers closed about the bare branch and held.

  That boat had his rifle, their supplies and her journal. She groaned as her shoulder joint tore. He gained a step toward her, then another. He fell beside her, the boat upon him. She grasped the willow frame and pulled again. Together they dragged the skins up onto the bank and fell heavily on the sand beside it.

  Her chest heaved as they lay still against the warm sand. Above her, the sun shone gaily down, denying th
e horror she had just experienced. Her shoulder throbbed. Her teeth chattered together like wild applause. She turned her head to see Nash lying on his side. His shirt was torn and his shoulder bled from many abrasions. Water ran from ropes of dark hair and disappeared into the sand.

  His eyelids fluttered open and she stared into his eyes.

  “We made it,” he whispered. A half smile played upon his lips.

  She groaned. Every muscle hurt. Her body had been rattled to the bone. She must have swallowed half the river. She lay on the warm sand and let the sunshine dry her face. Only a minute, she thought as she closed her eyes.

  “Delia!” The frantic call and rough shake sent her rearing up to a seated position.

  “What?”

  She saw his shoulders sag. He slowly shook his head.

  “I thought you passed out.”

  Had she? Perhaps. She looked about at the sandy shore covered with brush, then back to meet his gaze.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. Her fingers peeled back the wet buckskin and probed his wounds. The muscle of his shoulder looked as if a wildcat attacked him. The abrasions were not deep, thank heavens. Still, open wounds would fester.

  “I hit that big rock back there,” he said.

  She laughed. “Which one?”

  “Damned if I know.” He took her hand. “Delia, you’re a wonder. If you hadn’t thought of covering the bull boat, we’d have swamped for sure.”

  Her cheeks felt hot. She lowered her gaze from the admiration in his eyes.

  “Well, you’re the one who steered us through. I never could have done that.”

  They had made it together.

  “You hurt?”

  “I wrenched my shoulder.” She tried to lift it, but could not bring her hand above her head. “It’s all right. What about you?”

  “Just this scratch. I’m one lucky dog.”

  “Thomas, I thought we’d drown when the river took us under. I tried to pull loose, but the lashing held me.”

  “Good thing. We only came up because the boat is full of air. If you’d come out, the river would’ve had you.”