Across the Sweet Grass Hills Read online

  Of course she landed in the dirt, and furious with Evan and Lawrence, ran into the house crying. But the Reverend Ralston had believed in teaching his children not to be so easily frightened and thus made her go back out and fire the Henry over and over until she was no longer afraid.

  Liza wandered out past the campfire, stepping carefully over the rocky ground until she spotted it. The black hump, which lay less than sixty feet away; it was smaller than she had feared. A crow stood atop its head, as if claiming it for its own, while another crow hopped around on the ground angrily caw­ing at his companion.

  Liza frowned. She didn’t want to get any closer, but reckoned she should cut off a hunk of meat. She and her father needed food, no matter how objectionable.

  ****

  Red Eagle could no longer keep his eyes on the trail. Growing weak from the loss of blood, he was dizzy and needed rest. He stopped and leaned his hands against his thighs as he tried to peer ahead.

  Just beyond the trees, was that the stream where he’d stood and watched Liza, half-clothed, bathe in the water? He remembered the pale softness of her breasts, how they swelled up against her undergarment. He remembered the sheen of her hair in the bright sunlight and how he longed to reach out and run his hands over her silken skin. Was she there still, standing beside the water, watching him?

  It was only a mirage. Disgusted, he stumbled to the water’s edge, fell to his knees and cupped his hands, letting the cool water run over his fingers. His stomach was empty and the water seemed to roll around inside him. He needed food. He needed rest.

  In a few minutes he’d push on.

  ****

  Robert Ralston blinked, his eyes unable to focus on any­thing except the bowl of blue sky above. Where was he? What had happened? Where was Liza?

  He tried to raise his head, but it was like a lead pipe. He rolled it from side to side. His mouth was dry, his lips were cracked. His tongue was so swollen it felt like a block of wood. He wanted something to drink.

  “Liza?” he whispered. “Liza?”

  He moaned, closing his eyes to the bright sunshine. He was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. What had he been doing to be so tired? Had he died and gone to Hell?

  It was a long time before he opened his eyes again. “Liza?” he whispered. “Where are you?”

  He blinked, and suddenly her face filled the space above him. Tears were running down her cheeks and a smile crossed her tanned face. Her brown eyes twinkled from the tears filling them.

  “Liza,” he tried again, “what happened?”

  “Oh, Papa.” She touched his cheek. “I can’t believe you’re awake. But I knew you’d survive!” She swallowed before going on. “You were shot—by Indians or rustlers, I don’t know. Do you remember?”

  He shook his head, but his lips wouldn’t respond. No, he didn’t remember anything.

  “Giles was killed. I ran away and hid, and they didn’t fol­low. It was a miracle they didn’t scalp you. Then Red Eagle found me. He was the one—”

  Her father shook his head. Red Eagle? Who was Red Eagle?

  “Yes, yes, but we’ll talk later. Oh, so much has happened. I thought I might lose you—forever.”

  He tried to raise his right hand, but it was sodden and ached deeply. Liza quickly clasped his fingers and brought them to her lips. “Please, Father, rest now. It’s enough that you’re alive.”

  He let his eyelids drop and quickly found himself in the darkness again, but this time he could hear and smell and think. Only, he didn’t want to think right now. It hurt to think, as it hurt to move. There would be a better time to think—

  When he stirred the second time, Liza was already seat­ed beside him. With a damp cloth, and a cup of cool water, she waited. She would have something else to offer him once the bear meat had boiled. She had managed to dig up several roots and was able to catch a fish trapped in a small pool of water. She had roasted and eaten it, even the fins and tail.

  Her father seemed to be more coherent as Liza washed him down. “Your wound has healed nicely, I think, but you still have a bit of a fever,” she said. “Last night you were sweating, so I knew it was going to break soon. Now, if you can manage some water, and then later, some broth—”

  She stopped, realizing she had prattled on. Father would not have the strength for more than a few words yet. She smiled as she pressed a damp cloth of water against his lips.

  Then, suddenly, he broke into a fit of coughing and rolled his head to one side so the spittle dribbled out.

  “It will be all right,” she whispered, wiping his lips. “I promise.” She tried to smile. “You’d be surprised how much your daughter has learned in the last five days. You always wanted me to be tough. It only took twenty-one years.”

  Her father’s eyes narrowed. She continued. “Father, I’m sorry. Sometimes it’s better to laugh than to cry.”

  At that, her father’s expression softened. He smiled a weak, lopsided smile. “I’m tough, too,” he whispered.

  Tears stung her eyes. “Tougher than you can imagine.”

  He smiled again, but immediately broke into a second fit of coughing.

  “Oh, Father, what can I do?”

  “Water,” he said, almost silently.

  “Of course!” She dipped the rag into a cup of water and wet his lips again. He began to suck like a newborn on the bit of cloth. When he nodded, Liza removed the rag.

  His voice was barely audible. “Giles had some—whiskey,” he said.

  She frowned. “It’s gone. Everything is gone.”

  Her father sighed. He didn’t have the energy to say more. There would be time later. When he was stronger; when she was stronger.

  His mind reeled with a new urgency. There was so much to tell his daughter, so much he’d kept hidden. Later. He would have to tell her everything.

  Liza let him rest but didn’t leave his side. She wiped his forehead and cheeks, hoping to bring down his fluctuating temperature. He slept fitfully, but it was a different kind than the strange sleep he’d been in for almost a week.

  When he rallied the third time, Liza checked the wound. It had been so difficult when she could hardly move him or reach around him. He tried to help by dragging himself up on one arm while Liza peeled back the layers of fabric until she reached the raw flesh.

  “See, how well it’s done,” she said to her father. “I tore up an entire petticoat treating this wound,” she added, with a smile.

  If only Red Eagle could see it; he had been a better doctor than she could have hoped for. He had been a better doctor than she had deserved.

  “I’m going down to the stream. Maybe I can catch anoth­er fish. I trapped one earlier and it was pretty good eating. Then I’ll give you a little of the broth I’ve cooked up—”

  She didn’t add that it was bear broth.

  Her father, weak but alert, smiled. “My daughter, the fisherman. I thought I would be the one to fish—”

  “For souls, Father,” she quipped, smiling. “But I’m after food for our empty bellies. I’m afraid my desires in life are not as noble as yours.”

  “Hush, girl,” he grimaced. “You have been braver than I could ever be.”

  “No, you hush,” she said gravely. “I’m barely keeping my wits. I’ve not done anything courageous.”

  She left him then to catch their meager supper. Tying her skirt up around her waist, she entered the icy stream cautious­ly, inhaling sharply as it circled her calves. The afternoon had cooled considerably and several dark clouds blanketed the sun. A breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees and as the sunlight waned, Liza knew autumn was coming.

  She hiked her skirt higher and moved deeper into the stream. Several large fish slipped right through her fingers as she tried to grab at them. This was harder than she thought, or perhaps her luck had run out.

  It took several more attempts, but at last, as her legs grew numb from the cold, Liza cornered a small fish near the shore. In the shadows
it was hard to see, but she waited until it stopped moving before reaching in and flipping it onto the shore. It wiggled furiously and almost leapt back into the water but she scrambled out and caught it, laughing in triumph.

  Ralston slept as the fish cooked. Liza did not disturb him. The broth was still simmering and she sprinkled in a little of the salt she had rescued.

  At least there was food for tonight.

  But what would she do if no one came along? Could she leave her father long enough to find her way back to Fort Shaw?

  And even if she could, how could she return in time to save him? Liza bit her lip. She would have to wait for someone to find them, that was all there was to it.

  If only she hadn’t refused Red Eagle’s offer of help.

  ****

  Red Eagle rolled over. He groaned, the pain in his side taking his breath away. He opened his eyes slowly. Had his mind been playing tricks on him again or had he actually made his way to Liza’s camp? He smelled the campfire.

  Glancing around, he saw a fire burning brightly, the flames leaping up to lick the limb wood. Stretching his right hand out in front of him, he let the warmth of the fire tickle his palm. He needed the comfort and warmth.

  He also needed food.

  Red Eagle sat up, still confused. “Liza?”

  “Ah! So the varmint is alive!”

  Red Eagle jumped, startled by the booming voice.

  “Hell’s bells, there ain’t no reason to look like you seen a ghost!”

  Swallowing, Red Eagle tried to speak. “I thought I was— some place else,” he said, sorely disappointed that his dream had been an illusion. He strained to make out the face of the man who had spoken, but could only see the back end of a gray mule and two arms stretched over a packsaddle.

  “Well, I found you over there,” came the gruff voice again.

  “I must have passed out—”

  “Passed out? Nah, you was near dead as far as I could tell. Didn’t think you’d ever wake up. Had sorta thought about skin­nin’ you and addin’ your hide to these others.”

  Red Eagle’s eyes narrowed as the man stepped out from behind the gray mule. He was a big man with shoulders as wide as two men and a belly that hung down over his twisted rawhide belt. Except for his yellow-white hair and long yellow beard, the man looked almost Indian, with his fringed leather tunic and leggings. His clothes were well-worn but ornately decorated. Red Eagle noted the variety of beads and quills stitched down his knee-high moccasins.

  “Like ’em, eh, breed?” laughed the burly man. “I got me a good squaw woman,” he added briskly. “But bead work is not why I keep her around.” He smiled slowly as he covered the dis­tance between them.

  “I—I must be on my way,” said Red Eagle, getting to his feet. He swayed as he tried to take a step forward.

  “You’re just wiser than a sheet house rat, ain’t you? But I figure I caught you, so’s I’ll let you go when I’m good and ready. Now sit. I don’t like to eat alone.”

  ****

  “I want to sit up—”

  Liza jumped up and rushed to her father. “Don’t move. You’re not strong enough.”

  “Sitting up will not hurt me,” he grumbled.

  Liza frowned. “Oh, I suppose not, if you’re careful.” She slipped her arms under his shoulders and helped him slide for­ward. He grunted as his weight shifted, but relaxed visibly as he sat up. She fashioned a backrest out of a small barrel and her pillow, then shoved her small hand trunk behind it to keep it from rolling.

  “How about some broth?” She had to get some food into him soon.

  Her father shook his head. “Don’t think I can swallow it.”

  “But you must. Please, for me?”

  He smiled weakly and nodded. “Only for you.”

  She returned with a cup full of broth.

  “Smells pretty good,” he said. “Didn’t know you could cook.”

  “I don’t,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “That is, not well. But it’s amazing what you can do in a pinch.”

  “True,” whispered her father. He took a sip, pulling back as his lips touched the broth. “Hot!” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Liza. She blew on the soup, then offered it again. He swallowed six spoonfuls.

  “Enough,” he said and closed his eyes. She watched him closely. If only there was more she could do. If only she could get real help.

  His eyes opened again. “I’m sorry you had to face this— all alone, Elizabeth,” he whispered, dark brows pinched, mouth turned down at the corners.

  “I didn’t—exactly—face it alone. I told you, there was Red Eagle.”

  “Red Eagle? I don’t remember anyone—”

  “No, of course not. He found me. He was the one who removed the bullet from near your heart. He killed an antelope, too. He—”

  “Where is he now?” Her father’s eyes widened and he scanned the campsite.

  “You won’t find him,” whispered Liza. “I told him I would­n’t let him move you, and then, there was Private Scott—”

  “Scott?” He shook his head.

  Liza frowned, looking down at her hands. She pulled at a thread that hung from the frazzled cuff of her shirtwaist. “I can’t explain everything,” she said. “Too much has happened.”

  Her father nodded and closed his eyes. She watched him, knowing how hard he was fighting to get well. Always a man to take control, his not pressing her for answers showed just how little strength he possessed.

  “Tell me about Red Eagle,” he said after a long silence. “He sounds more interesting than Scott. And he spoke English?”

  Liza yanked again at the thread on her sleeve. “Yes, very well.”

  “Where was he from? What tribe?”

  “I don’t know, really,” said Liza. “Only that he was travel­ing to his mother’s people.”

  “Blackfeet,” said her father carefully. “Perhaps he’s a half-breed.” He reached out for Liza’s hair. She had braided it and it hung in two long plaits past her breasts. He fingered one braid, then let it drop. “I have so much to tell you, Liza. I should have done it long ago.” He coughed then, and Liza frowned.

  She pressed her hand to his forehead. “Not now, Father. Later.”

  ****

  The next day, Liza’s father seemed stronger and spent most of the morning sitting up. Liza managed to gather several plump roots along the shoreline and added them to the chunk of bear meat still cooking in its broth. She wondered how long it would feed them.

  He watched her in silence and several times looked as if he might cry. Unaccustomed to seeing her father emotional, except in anger or behind the pulpit as he preached, she found it disconcerting. He had always been a strong man, determined and demanding.

  She filled a tin cup with hot broth and sat beside him.

  He smiled. “You finally have the upper hand, eh? How does it feel?”

  “Hush. You’re stronger already. You’ll be back to yourself in a few days.”

  She guided a spoon to his mouth but his gaze remained fixed on her. He swallowed slowly, licking his lips. “I will never be the same,” he said suddenly. “I never want to be the same,” he added.

  Liza was startled, not understanding why he would say such things. “Here,” she said brightly, hoping to divert his thoughts. “Eat this.”

  He studied her, then said, “All right.” He took two more spoonfuls. “It’s good.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s horrible, but it’s all there is—” She grew quiet, not wanting to bring up their lack of provisions and Private Scott’s deception.

  “You’re wrong,” quipped her father. “It’s manna from heaven. You’ve done very well.”

  “Father, you don’t understand. I trusted a white man, Private Will Scott, because I was afraid to trust Red Eagle. Yet Red Eagle had already proven his friendship and honesty. This no-account scoundrel left us with nothing. How could a soldier be so untrustworthy? How could I be so stupid?”
/>   Her father said nothing but turned his strained, pale face to her.

  “Red Eagle would not have done such a thing, Father! But I refused to trust him—”

  “Daughter, your mother and I did not raise fools. You were being cautious. That’s not stupid.”

  “Papa! Listen to me. I was sure you were going to die and then I would die, too. I’ve been afraid, of everything! Even shooting the bear. I was so frightened, I simply held the gun— and fired. I fired until there were no bullets left. That’s all.”

  Ralston closed his eyes and leaned against the backrest. “Courage is never something we choose,” he whispered, almost to himself. “We merely do the best we can with the challenges God gives us.”

  “Well, I don’t understand why God has done this to you,” she stammered, setting the cup and spoon on the ground. “I don’t understand why God would bring such misery to some­one who trusts Him. You were doing what He wanted!”

  He took a long, slow breath. His eyes were still closed and his hands trembled as he folded them in his lap. Liza bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t spoken so harshly.

  “This world is not where I place my faith,” he said at last. “Situations come along in each of our lives that confound us, discourage us, even destroy us. But the heart and spirit,” he placed his hand against his chest, “don’t have to be touched. My heart belongs to God, and someday I will return to Him. Until then, I will do the best I can. Just like you.”

  “I still don’t understand,” said Liza.

  “In time we each come to understand what God has in store for us.”

  She sighed and squeezed her father’s hand, not wanting to upset him any further.

  He turned his face to hers. “Elizabeth, there is something else that we must talk about.”

  “No, Father, nothing more need be said. You need rest.”

  “Listen to me. I have a confession—”

  “You? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, let me speak.” He leaned over and coughed, a cough that seemed to come from deep within.