Across the Sweet Grass Hills Read online

  When the water became unbearable, Liza climbed out, skin icy, feet heavy and numb. Water ran down her legs, stain­ing the sandy shore as she scurried up the bank. In her hands were the dripping dress, muddy shoes, and stockings.

  She hadn’t gone very far when she felt a strange chill.

  Someone was watching.

  Taking a deep breath, Liza pressed the cold folds of the dress to her belly and turned.

  Him! The half-breed, Red Eagle. He stood not more than thirty yards away.

  She blinked in confusion. Was it an animal carcass draped over his shoulders? Father’s rifle was in his left hand.

  Why hadn’t he wakened her if he hadn’t meant to leave them?

  Her cheeks burned as frustration bubbled up. “How dare you leave without saying a word,” she chided, then stopped—chest heaving—as the cooling breeze blew across her bare arms and shoulders. She didn’t want him to see just how frightened she’d really been.

  Staring at each other across the flat stretch of dry yel­lowed grass, the silence grew heavy. Neither moved and noth­ing more was said.

  Finally, Red Eagle’s gaze traveled up and down Liza’s scantily clothed body, and he shifted his bloody load as he raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  Liza colored fiercely, feeling his scrutiny. Though clad in only undergarments, she ignored her discomfort and decided she couldn’t allow another outburst. She gritted her teeth and flashed a hard stare, daring him to make a move.

  Red Eagle seemed to enjoy her struggle. He stood for another long moment before turning away.

  She tossed her unkempt hair back across her shoul­ders. Tongue-tied, she watched him. Then, not wanting to face his sardonic smile again, she stepped into the wet and wrinkled dress. The material clung to her clammy skin. She pulled the wet stockings on, but they would not roll up. She jerked her boots on and impatiently folded the stockings over the tops. Finally, weighed down by the clinging skirt, she marched up to camp. She ignored Red Eagle’s bemused expression as she lumbered over to the campfire.

  “It’s good that you kept the fire burning,” he said, his dark eyes taunting her. “You will need to hang yourself above the flames to dry.”

  “If you would kindly leave, I could change my clothes,” she snapped.

  “I have already seen you without clothes,” he remind­ed her. Light smoldered in his dark eyes.

  Liza glared, trying to calm her tumultuous emotions. Red Eagle’s smile, as much as his unexpected return, had unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

  “I will go and fill the bucket with fresh water. Then we will eat.” Still smiling, he picked up a small wooden bucket and turned back toward the stream.

  Liza waited for him to move out of sight before pulling off the cold, wet dress. Eyeing him, she stumbled into her brown calico, but her trembling fingers made it difficult to fasten the double row of loops and buttons. Red-faced, she started over, managing to fasten all but two tiny pearl buttons at the base of her throat.

  Stepping out from behind the wagon, Liza’s attention returned immediately to Red Eagle.

  He was kneeling by the fire, his golden skin made more so by the red-orange flames danc­ing only a foot from his face. In his right hand he held a knife. Without a word, he pointed to the haunch of fresh meat. “Supper,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Uh, yes,” she stammered, awed by the sight of a man preparing food for her.

  “There is enough to keep us for many days if we care for it properly.”

  Liza nodded, suddenly warmed by his concern. He gave her another smile and she moved awkwardly toward the fire, afraid to admit she knew little about carving meat.

  Giles had rarely hunt­ed anything but rabbits, and one day, he captured a snake, which she refused to clean or eat. Her father had had little luck with hunting, too; instead, he fished, so she had learned to clean brook trout. Back home in St. Louis, there had always been a house servant to attend to the meat.

  Red Eagle extended the butt end of his long knife, teas­ing her with flashing eyes.

  Liza took the knife, turning it slowly in her hands. The handle was made of horn, perhaps elk or deer. The blade was broad, sharp, and deadly. For a moment, she won­dered if Red Eagle had ever used it on a man.

  Stifling the thought, she knelt beside him, eyes averted. She didn’t want to look into this man’s eyes, for they seemed to look through her, and she feared he might see the apprehen­sion and anxiety reflected in her face. Instead she timidly reached for a slab of red meat, grimacing at the blood that colored her fingers.

  Red Eagle grunted. “You have not told me your name.”

  She flushed. “My name is Elizabeth Ralston, but only Father calls me that. Everyone else calls me Liza.”

  “Then that is what I will call you. Li-za,” he said careful­ly, nodding. Red Eagle’s teasing smile scorched like a brand. “Do what I do, Liza,” he instructed quietly, his attention diverted by the way she’d begun cutting the meat.

  Liza frowned, seeing that her slices of meat were thick, rather than thin. She started over, determined to imitate him perfectly, for suddenly she knew she would have to learn all that this half-breed could teach her. Having always relied on her father and her brothers, she must learn to rely on herself.

  Likewise, she would have to remember where she was, who she was, and, most of all, what he was. She could never forget that.

  CHAPTER 3

  On the third morning, Red Eagle approached Liza. He walked toward her with long, purposeful strides, head bent, black hair flowing past his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was soft but firm. “We must go.”

  Taking a quick breath, she stammered, “Go where? Surely, someone will come along if we stay here.”

  Red Eagle’s dark brows slanted in a frown. “This is not a trail that many follow. If the men who attacked you return, we are too few to stand against them.” He looked across to where Liza’s father lay. Liza followed his glance. “You were lucky your father was left alive and that you were not discovered. These men would not let you escape a second time.”

  The color rose in her cheeks. Liza knew only too well the truth of Red Eagle’s words. But to leave? “How would we move him? We have no horses and the wagon is no good.”

  “We will build a travois. My mother’s people, the Pikuni, carry their belongings and old people on such travois. Sometimes dogs, even people, pull them.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said Liza, biting her lip. “Besides, you already said the fort is almost two weeks away, and we never came across a single trading post.”

  Red Eagle turned and pointed. “We will go into the South Fork Basin and wait. The Pikuni stay there during Leaves Falling Moon and they will be arriving from the Sweet Grass Hills any day. That is where I was headed when—”

  “The South Fork Basin?”

  “Yes. The Pikuni travel there to gather Mississa, Okkunokin, Kachatan, and Omuckaiixixi. There is not much time left before winter, but those who can treat your father’s wound better than I will be there.”

  Liza tried to imagine herself in the company of an Indian tribe. She shook her head.

  Red Eagle continued, “It will take three days to travel there, and it will be safe. My mother’s people will help you.”

  “But they’re Indians,” sputtered Liza. What do they know about medicine? Ok-kun-okin and O-muck-ai? “What if they decide to remove his scalp? Or mine?” she said, shaking her head. “No, it’s out of the question.”

  Red Eagle drew a deep breath. Standing solemnly, he clenched his jaw and frowned.

  “I’m not your captive,” she said. “And I know what is best for my father. Not that I’m ungrateful,” she added quickly. “You helped my father, but I won’t move him yet. At least not without knowing where we’re going. Someone will come. I have to believe that.”

  Red Eagle’s dark eyebrows knitted together as he slipped his fingers under the rawhide belt encircling his waist. His voice was ha
rd. “And who has come so far?” He looked down at Liza’s father, then back at her. “I will build a travois out of the wagon. You will prepare the meat and blankets and supplies. Pack only what you need. We will leave tomorrow. I cannot leave you and we cannot stay any longer.”

  Liza stared wordlessly. Had he not heard her? Or did he think he could just bully her?

  She swallowed and met his gaze. “No, we will not be leaving this place—not my father, not me. We have water here and our things.” She waved a hand in the direction of the wagon. “There isn’t much left, but it’s all we’ve got. And I’m not going to let some heathen doctor dance around my father, shaking bones and rattles in his face. Besides,” she added, taking a deep, unsteady breath as she turned back to her father. “There have to be people passing this way in a day or two.” She slapped her hands as if to indicate the finality of her words. “If you must leave,” she suggested, “do so. We will make our way back to the fort when he is well enough.” She took an impatient breath. “Who asked you to stay, anyhow?”

  Red Eagle’s eyes flashed and his lips dipped in a frown. “I will return you and your father to the fort when he is strong enough to travel that far. Until then, we go to the Pikuni. It is safer that way. Better for him—and you.” His voice faded, losing its steely edge. “There is another reason I must go to my moth­er’s people. But I promise I will take you and your father back to Fort Shaw or even Fort Benton.”

  Liza said nothing. After all, the man had helped her. But he was still a stranger, very much a stranger, and she must not let anything imperil her father’s chances for survival, and so far he had not regained consciousness, except to moan or move in deep sleep as if he were in great pain.

  Abruptly, Red Eagle turned in silence.

  Liza watched him stride away, shoulders taut against the lines of his tunic. Well, she thought, if he must go, I will not stop him. Hadn’t Lieutenant Cole warned her of mixed bloods, declaring they were ofttimes more conniving and unpredictable than full-blooded Indians?

  No doubt the lieutenant knew more than she about Indians.

  She pulled at her waistcoat impatiently. She couldn’t afford to be swayed by fear or confused by conflicting emo­tions. Even still, a quiet voice reminded her of what Red Eagle had done for her father. Hadn’t he proven himself a friend?

  Liza admitted she’d never been more helpless in her life. Yet, how could she agree to travel deeper into the wilderness? It had been the Montana wilderness that had destroyed her mother and now, threatened her father.

  No, she could not move further into the wild country that loomed ahead, no matter how kind Red Eagle had been.

  She returned to her father’s side, bathing him, watching him, aware that he was already a shadow of the robust, striking man he had been and brushed aside the tears that blurred her vision. She had to make the right decision.

  Her father’s life depended on it.

  ****

  Red Eagle avoided Liza for the rest of the morning. He did not approach the fire nor did he speak. She wondered if he was punishing her. Perhaps he would abandon them after all, especially since she had been unwilling to compromise.

  At noon, Liza wandered out to where Red Eagle sat, perched on the large rock overlooking the river. Sharpening his knife along the edge of a long flat stone, he did not look up, even when she offered him a plate of braised meat.

  Finally, he raised his eyes. “We will leave tomorrow,” he said in a somber voice. “At sunrise. We must find my mother’s people. Then I will escort you and your father to Fort Shaw when he is able. But we cannot stay here any longer.”

  Liza stiffened, the harsh scraping made by Red Eagle’s knife sending a chill down her spine. So, he was still determined to go. She studied his stern expression but said nothing.

  Red Eagle abruptly returned to his task, his frown as forbidding as any glowering glance.

  Pretending not to understand his look, Liza dropped the plate, then shrugged and returned to camp.

  CHAPTER 4

  Late in the afternoon, after bathing her father’s wound and rewrapping it carefully, Liza shook out a blanket and lay down. The sunshine was warm against her skin, so she slipped a bonnet over her head and face. Before closing her eyes, she cast a glance at Red Eagle. He had not moved in more than two hours; evidently he had expected her to acquiesce without argument. But why couldn’t he just remain with them here, at least until her father improved?

  Exhausted by her emotions, she escaped by letting her thoughts drift back to those last days in St. Louis. The St. Louis of her dreams. To the dances and the strolls along the river, arm and arm with her best friend Mary. To her bedroom upstairs in their stately brick house on McKinney Road. She loved that tiny room, with its white lace curtains and pale yellow walls. She recalled the coverlet Mother helped her make when she turned twelve. Mother took pride in the perfect stitches adorning everything she made. Liza wished she had kept the curtains...

  Just then she heard a shout.

  Liza stumbled to her feet, sure that it was Red Eagle who hailed her. Was he ready to concede, or would this be their show­down? She turned, cheeks hot, pulse quickening.

  But there was no one. The rock platform where Red Eagle had been sitting was empty. The shoreline was abandoned, too. Only a hawk circled high above the yellow-green landscape.

  The shout came again, and immediately, Liza spotted not Red Eagle, but a rider, coming at a trot across the hazy, rolling grassland. The sun, already slipping behind the Rockies, sent a burst of pink rays north and south, highlighting the approaching man and horse. Liza felt her heart take a sudden leap. She had been right. There was someone coming. But where was Red Eagle?

  “Here! Here we are!” She ran to greet him. “Hello,” she laughed, her hands raised above her head. “Over here!” How could she help but smile. Someone had come. They would be res­cued.

  And the man was in uniform. A soldier? Perhaps he was a scout or a messenger, and more were following.

  “Thank God,” she said out loud as the rider waved his cap through the air. He wore a broad, toothy grin. Liza waved again. He was just a boy, she realized, noting the trooper’s pim­pled cheeks and fair skin.

  “Well, if this don’t beat all,” he said brightly, drawing up his reins and leaning over the neck of his prancing horse. “What are you doin’ way out here? Pickin’ wild flowers?”

  Liza blushed, then put her hands out to touch the soft muzzle of the horse. It nickered gently, and Liza sighed. The animal felt good, reassuring and comforting. She pointed to where her father lay. “We were attacked,” she whispered. “My father...”

  The soldier swung down and stood before her. His eyes were bright blue, but his teeth, yellowed and crooked, gave his round face a jaunty appearance. He looked her up and down. “An’ if you ain’t as handsome as an ace-full of queens,” he said. He reached out as if to touch her.

  Liza took a step back. “My father is hurt,” she stam­mered, wishing the soldier would take his eyes off her. “He’s over there. We—I—am doing the best I can, but he hasn’t stirred since getting shot. That was four days ago.”

  “Renegades, eh? Dirty heathens’ll leave you with nothin’, not even yer hide, most times. Too bad we cain’t jest clean ’em all out. Well, now, let’s take a look,” drawled the blonde-haired trooper. He followed to where her father lay. Pulling down the blanket, he peered at the neatly bound wound. “You did this? Guess you must know somethin’ ’bout tendin’,” he said approv­ingly. “Most pilgrims come out here useless as warts on a purty girl’s bottom. ’Scuse me,” he added, dropping his head.

  “Please, can you help us? I mean, are you headed to a fort? Are you a scout?”

  The soldier mumbled an unintelligible reply. “In a man­ner of speakin’, I am,” he added quickly, cocking his head. “But I sure could eat and drink somethin’. I feel like a post hole ’as ain’t been filled up.” He grinned again and Liza felt the rush of blood to her face. “Lost my pac
k horse,” he added, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Of course. I—I have a small stew, antelope is all.” She refrained from telling him about Red Eagle, to protect him, although she didn’t know why. Perhaps because the soldier so clearly hated Indians, and he would despise Red Eagle for abandoning her now.

  “Snake stew would taste good right now,” interrupted the soldier.

  Liza made a wry face. “Please, what about my father?” She stepped over to the fire and lifted the kettle of meat pre­pared earlier for Red Eagle. She placed it on the tripod Red Eagle had built the day he killed the antelope.

  “Who dug the bullet out? You?”

  She shrugged, still not wanting to reveal anything about Red Eagle. “Well, it had to come out...”

  “Ain’t you as gritty as eggs rolled in sand.”

  Liza looked away. The soldier’s flattery was more than disconcerting. She stirred the meat carefully, stealing an occa­sional glance as he flopped down beside the fire. He had light brown hair, curly and unkempt, and his face was as round as a pie, though he was not fat or particularly big. The soldier’s uni­form was ragged and soiled and looked as though it needed stitching in a dozen places.

  Perhaps he had been on the trail a good while, she thought, suddenly sympathetic.

  She ignored her next thought: why would a soldier be travelling alone for so long?

  She picked up a plate and spooned up some meat. “Sure don’t know what to tell you about your pa, Miss,” the trooper said consolingly. “He looks like he’s asleep, for sure.”

  He took the plate, but as he did so, let his gaze linger on her face. “By the by, my name is Willy Scott, Private.”

  Liza nodded. “I’m Elizabeth Ralston.”

  “Well, it is a pleasure, Miss Ralston,” smiled Private Scott.

  Feeling like a tongue-tied schoolgirl, Liza did not know what to say next. She lowered her eyes. She pointed to the ground, not far from the fire. “Shall I tie up your horse? It’s a fine animal.”

  “Nah,” returned Scott quickly. “He’s so genteel you could stake him on a hairpin. Can’t survive very long in this country without a good hoss.”