Across the Sweet Grass Hills Read online

  Liza stiffened. How could she explain her father’s dream to travel where others dared not, when she herself had not understood?

  Red Eagle pulled her upright. He released her wrist and stepped back. His voice had a somber tone. “We need to go back. Perhaps we can save something. And your father—”

  She shook her head. “They killed him.” Her voice trailed off as she turned and stared into the distance. “Dead. He and Giles.” She caught her breath. “The wolves—”

  And then she was running again, skirting the rocks and clumps of coarse grass as she raced back to camp.

  The campsite was further away than she remem­bered, but winding past the familiar grove of trees, she spot­ted the stream where she had collected water and Father had caught fish. Its peaceful sounds tore at her heart. How could the sun be shining when her whole world had col­lapsed around her?

  The wagon was on its side, its contents scattered.

  Giles’s enormous body, only a few yards to the east, lay half-­hidden in the yellow grass. Flies circled it, buzzing hungrily. Liza staggered on.

  Her father lay where he had fallen, his large frame slumped against the ground. Liza ran to him, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her arms around him.

  Unexpectedly, he seemed to relax and Liza pulled back. Tiny droplets of sweat clung to his forehead, shim­mering against the dark strands of his hair. Blood covered his shirt.

  But he was alive.

  Liza cradled him. “Papa.”

  At her words, his eyelids fluttered open, but the glassy brown circles beneath seemed to float in their sockets.

  “Father?” Liza said, placing her lips against his ear.

  Having forgotten Red Eagle, she jumped when she realized he was standing behind her. Bracing herself, she turned and scrutinized the features of his face through her tears: dark eyes, set apart by a strong nose; full lips, drawn in a tight frown, a small scar cut into the lower lip. Was this someone she could trust?

  “He can’t die,” she whispered and tore off a piece of her petticoat to press against her father’s wound. Blood oozed through the heavy cotton.

  Red Eagle pulled off his own tunic and, dropping to one knee, wrapped it around the white man’s broad chest and left shoulder. “He has lost much blood.”

  “We have to stop it.”

  “The bullet must come out.”

  “But you’re not a doctor. He needs a surgeon.” Liza pulled her father closer in protest. What could a heathen, even a half-breed, know of medicine and surgery? “He needs a real doctor,” she blurted.

  Eyebrows raised, Red Eagle shrugged and stood up. “Then find a real doctor. But he will die before many days.”

  “There must be a trading post or settlement nearby. We can keep the wound closed, then...”

  Red Eagle shook his head, his jaw tensing visibly. “Your army fort is ten, twelve days away on foot. The clos­est white settlement is six or seven days. Your father won’t last that long.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Red Eagle bent over the big man and pulled away the blood-soaked tunic. “I do not know how deep the bullet has gone.”

  Liza followed the movement of Red Eagle’s hands. Half in anticipation, half in dread, she turned from the bloody scene. What other choice do I have?

  The Indian was Father’s best chance for survival. If only his calm assurance could ease her fear: would this prove a deadly mistake?

  As Red Eagle probed for the bullet, blood flowed again. Liza raised her skirt and tore off more strips of petticoat. Red Eagle took some and dabbed at the oozing blood. She watched him, but his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts or character.

  Fingering the fringed sheath that hung from his rawhide belt, he drew a long, heavy knife.

  Liza leaned forward. “Wait.” Pushing to her feet, she rushed to the overturned wagon and returned with a thin, shiny blade. “Father’s boning knife.”

  Red Eagle raised an eyebrow as he took the knife and examined it.

  He cut quickly, his furrowed brows drawn together in a dark line. In seconds, his hands were drenched and the blade dripped red.

  Liza panicked. The color in her father’s face was fading. Immediately she regretted letting Red Eagle cut. “He’s going to die,” she protested. “Look.”

  “This is his only chance,” returned Red Eagle through clenched teeth.

  “No, you’ll kill him—”

  Red Eagle flashed his dark and unfath­omable eyes on her.

  She sat upright and thought better of protesting again. It was too late, anyway, and she knew it. They had to go on.

  “Bandages,” said Red Eagle.

  Liza fumbled with the folds of her skirt, again tearing off several pieces. She flushed at the blood covering Red Eagle’s fingers and tried to swallow the knot in her throat.

  Don’t faint, she told herself. Instead she focused on each dip and stroke of the boning knife. It seemed Red Eagle might never reach the bullet.

  “I feel it,” he finally whispered, leaning closer.

  She pressed the last bandage against the outer edges of the wound. There was not a clean piece of fabric that was not soaked now, but she didn’t dare move her hands away even to tear off more petticoat.

  It was with a groan that Red Eagle managed to reach the lead ball. “There,” he said. Carefully he picked the bullet out and placed it in Liza’s lap. They immediately covered the gaping wound with their hands. Red Eagle grabbed his tunic and slid it under her fingers. “Do you have thread?”

  “Yes, of course.” He replaced her hands with his as she ran to the wagon to rummage through the scattered remains of her trunk.

  Finding a small cloth purse, she removed a needle and a few threads of embroidery floss. She wiped her bloody hands on the front of her skirt before threading the needle. She’d wash later.

  Taking quick, short strokes, Red Eagle stitched the wound tightly closed. But Liza had to turn away as he pierced the bloody ends of flesh.

  Finishing, Red Eagle sank back on his heels and sighed. “He will sleep now.”

  Liza shivered as she reached out to touch her father. “But is he all right? Will he live?”

  “He is alive now,” Red Eagle said carefully, but did not say more. Perspiration clung to the fine lines around his eyes.

  With trembling fingers, Liza touched her father’s lips, waiting for his almost indiscernible breath to warm her skin. Tears came to her eyes when she realized that he was, indeed, breathing. Wiping them away with the back of her hand, she stood up, anxious to avoid this man’s scrutiny. His entire man­ner was so different, so austere, that it was almost frightening.

  She glanced down at Red Eagle.

  “It was very near his heart,” he said. In the palm of his extended hand he held the bullet. It must have fallen when she had gotten up to retrieve the thread.

  She took the slug and rolled it between her fingers.

  “I will make a poultice,” said Red Eagle, standing and stretching.

  “What sort of poultice?”

  “From special plants my mother used.”

  Examining the lead ball once more, Liza nodded. “All right.”

  Red Eagle’s eyes were bright in the glow of the noonday sun, and beyond him the pale sky melted into the rugged mountain peaks. The prairie shone yellow in the blazing sunshine, and it seemed strangely peaceful, possessing a tranquility that contrasted sharply with the confusion, fear, and exhaustion she had struggled against all morning.

  She smiled tentatively, resisting the pull to relax. This wild land had already claimed her mother and nearly her father.

  She couldn’t forget who and what was the enemy.

  Like as not, she had been a fool to trust this stranger, a half-breed. But what other choice did she have? She had been too frightened to think beyond the moment.

  Her lower lip trembled as she caught Red Eagle’s query­ing glance. Was it compassion or curiosity reflected there?

  “The poultice and the
bandage will ease the bleeding,” repeated Red Eagle. “In a day, perhaps two, he will be strong enough to travel.”

  She nodded, but said nothing, letting the melodic quali­ty of his voice soothe her. She couldn’t think anymore about the disturbing feelings swirling inside her. They weren’t feelings she recognized.

  “He needs sleep now,” suggested Red Eagle.

  “Yes, sleep.”

  “And you need rest. Food and rest.”

  She tried to shrug. “Food? I think there are some beans, maybe coffee, left from last evening.” Liza pushed her fingers through her tousled hair and frowned. “I must do some wash,” she stammered, then rubbed the palms of her hands together as if to emphasize her intention. “Everything is soiled.”

  Wandering over to the wagon, she found the last of a bucket of water. She quickly washed her hands and dried them on her skirt. “Look at this,” she said, more to herself than any­one else. “I’ll have to wash it, too.”

  Red Eagle frowned. “Not today. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  Liza didn’t argue. She felt so exhausted, she was relieved to do nothing.

  “You should sleep,” he said, pointing to the overturned wagon. “It’s more protected there. I will stay with him.”

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  Red Eagle nodded as if he understood. “Then I will see to the scout—”

  “Giles?” Liza bit her lip. She had forgotten that the poor man still lay in the ankle-high grass, his body a blackening car­cass on the sunlit landscape. “There’s a shovel in the wagon. Perhaps a tarp, to wrap him in?”

  She started for the wagon, but Red Eagle stopped her. “I do not need your help. Take care of your father and yourself.”

  She drew a slow breath. She had dreaded moving too near Giles’s distended, wretched body.

  Watching Red Eagle dig Giles’ grave, Liza couldn’t help but be touched by his manner. He possessed such calmness and for­titude. He hadn’t recoiled at the sight or smell of the swollen, putrid body, even while rolling it into the shallow hole. Earlier she’d noted that he worked on her father with the same compassion.

  When Red Eagle was finished, he sauntered down to the stream that flowed through the tall, gray-green trees and berry-laden brush. He dropped his stained tunic into the water and removed his moccasins.

  Captivated by his movements, Liza moved back to her father’s side to sit down, keeping her casual glances hidden behind the loose curtain of her long hair.

  Squatting along the muddy bank, Red Eagle rinsed his long, dark arms in the clear water. It ran off his shoulders and down his back like penny ribbons of tinsel. Liza watched the muscles of his shoulders and arms contract and relax.

  She had not often seen a man bare-chested. Once, when she was a girl, she had walked in on her father, not knowing he was half-dressed, and once, when she was thirteen, she stumbled across two boys—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—as they swam, stark naked, in the river. Amazed by their muscled bodies and male parts, she had watched them from the bushes until she feared discovery.

  She never told anyone what she’d seen that day.

  Turning back to her father, Liza wound a lap quilt into a pillow to slip under his head.

  She stole another glance at Red Eagle, strangely fascinat­ed by his ruggedness. Biting her lip, she blushed, then turned back to wipe the dark hair from her father’s forehead.

  She was still blushing when Red Eagle returned, his damp shirt in place, hair neatly tied back with a thong. Liza noticed the beaded design outlining the yoke of his tunic and the tiny shells attached to the shoulder seams. Had someone lovingly stitched the shirt for him? Some woman, with flashing almond eyes and a willing heart?

  Once more, she reproached herself.

  Red Eagle dropped to the ground, grunting softly.

  Liza tried not to be too curious, but found herself repeatedly steal­ing glances. Red Eagle had stretched his long legs out in front of him and was peering out across the vast eastern plain. What did he see beyond the emptiness?

  He frowned.

  Instantly, she wanted to wipe away his frown. Was he already regretting helping them?

  It was only later, as the camp’s fire sent sparks glittering into the ebony dome of night that Liza remembered she had neither thanked Red Eagle nor introduced herself. She pulled her blankets up around her shoulders.

  Time for that tomorrow.

  ****

  In the morning, Liza checked on her father, sighing when she saw he was still breathing. Excited, she jumped to her feet to tell Red Eagle, but he was nowhere in sight. She looked toward the stream, but the banks were empty. Taking a small, quick breath, she moved to the wagon to retrieve her personal articles. Perhaps he had gone to take care of his own needs.

  She tried not to think beyond what needed to be done: dress and wash; build a fire; prepare food; change Father’s ban­dages.

  But when all those things were done, she still found her­self alone. And suddenly, like a summer thundershower, the hor­ror of the last two days washed over her. Had Red Eagle left for good? Was she truly all alone? What would she do now?

  ****

  Red Eagle sat down near a stand of buffalo brush. Like a hedge, it followed the steep edge of the rocky bluff. He had thought it would be easy hunting here on the ridge, but it was taking longer than expected. Unfortunately, he had passed up a young antelope earlier. Now he would be satisfied with a blacktail.

  I should have wakened the girl, he thought, told her I’d be back. She’d been sleeping so peacefully, curled up beside her father that he was afraid to disturb her. In fact, he had been transfixed, feeling inexplicably drawn to her.

  She needed him. That much was clear. But he didn’t need the burden. He was headed to his uncle’s village and before much longer, would have to resume his journey.

  Only last night the haunting image of the old woman had returned to his dreams, filling him with dread. He had to warn Crying Wind. The old man would know if real trouble were coming.

  Absent-mindedly, Red Eagle reached out to the buffalo brush and gathered several clusters of fruit, but after two bites, tossed the rest away. Not until they had been touched by frost would the berries be palatable.

  He spotted a small grove of cottonwoods and aspens lin­ing the winding shoreline of the gray-green river beyond. He could see several places where animals had grazed or slept. Resting the white man’s rifle, which he’d discovered in the brush, across his forearm, he slid down the gravelly embankment, catching himself as he lost his balance on the loose shale. Near the water, he came across a fresh pile of pellets.

  He waited, inhaling the fresh morning air.

  Red Eagle held his breath as he spied a young antelope grazing. It raised its round head, honey-colored ears twitching. Running his hands down the stock of the Henry, Red Eagle raised the gun carefully, taking slow, sure aim. He fired and the animal, stunned, fell to its knees. In several strides Red Eagle reached the floundering antelope and slit its throat.

  It did not take long to skin and quarter the animal. With a horse, he could have salvaged more, but Red Eagle would not complain. The girl would have meat to eat tonight; he would have meat to eat tonight. Then he would talk to her about leaving.

  ****

  Liza watched her father closely as the hours passed. She washed him down. She sang to him, melodies her mother had sung to her when she had been ill.

  She stayed busy all morning collecting whatever twigs and limbs she could find, even dried buffalo pies. She stacked them on either side of the tiny campfire, then made a pot of coffee and a pan of fried bread. Once she thought she heard the distant sound of gunfire, and ran to grab Giles’s pistol and ammunition.

  Seated beside her father with the loaded weapon, she remained determined not to run if someone should come.

  But no one came and time seemed to stop as the sum­mer sun beat down. She constructed a lean-to for shade, but it was only wide enough to shelter her father�
�s face and shoul­ders. She wondered if Red Eagle would return and then cursed out loud. No different than any other renegade or scoundrel wandering the territory, no doubt the half-breed was gone for good.

  Oh, but she had been a fool to trust him.

  It was well past mid-afternoon and her stomach growled loudly, yet Liza couldn’t eat more than a few bites of bread. The coffee in her tin cup grew cold. Surely someone would have to come along.

  Then she frowned. This was not a well-traveled trail. It was a short cut Giles had suggested when her father pressed him to find the shortest trail north. Biting her broken finger­nails, she scanned the horizon. Anger once more knotted inside her. Oh, Father, how could you have been so naïve?

  How could anyone think the West was a place of new begin­nings and great opportunities? What right-thinking man wandered into the wilderness to minister to wild Indians? Such dreams were foolishness.

  Too restless to sit, Liza got up and wandered down to the water’s edge. She climbed onto a large rock that stretched out over a pool of gleaming water. Dragging her fingers through it, she pressed a handful to her lips. It burned her parched lips.

  She took a second drink, then wiped her wet fingers across her cheeks. She yanked off her boots and stockings and slipped her toes into the water. The bitter tingle brought feeling back into her feet. She gasped. Steeling herself, she pulled her skirt up and slipped deeper into the cold swirling pool. The water lapped at her knees and she shivered as she moved deeper and deeper into the stream.

  “They say women can go mad in the wilderness,” she said aloud. Looking across the sweeping plain that disappeared into the blue-gray horizon, she wondered, will that happen to me? She laughed. It would be a fitting end to the bizarre nightmare life had become.

  She unbuttoned her tattered dress and let it slide off her shoulders. It billowed out around her as it sank. She scooped up a handful of sand and rubbed the stains on her dress, scrubbing the dark places where her father’s blood had dried.