Chapter Nine

Kade opened his eyes to morning light—which morning he had no idea. Had it been last night or last week when he’d laid half-conscious listening to Blind Deer’s life story—or at least the parts she was willing to reveal to him.

Turning his head, he searched the cabin for a glimpse of her. His effort was rewarded with a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his skull. An involuntary moan escaped him, and his stomach lurched. Sleeping had done him no good—he felt worse not better. The dizziness increased, and he closed his eyes. Except for the day Tucket saved his life, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so sick and weak.

The bed jiggled. Then a cold wet nose pressed against his bare shoulder. Cautiously, he smiled, but he didn’t open his eyes or move to pet the dog, both efforts sounding too costly.

“Maggie,” he croaked through parched lips. “Hello girl. Go find Blind Deer.”

“I am here, McCauley.” Blind Deer crossed the room, the jingling of beads and shells growing more distinct. She touched his brow.

“Your fever is down.” She sounded much relieved by this fact.

“I hope you are planning to stay with us for a while this time? You have been very poor company, coming and going with no advanced notice. I have had to keep up both sides of the conversation. Not an easy task.”

“How long have I been out this time?”

“Another two days.”

“Holy heck, I’d better get up.” He made to rise, struck down once more when the room tilted and spun at a crazy angle.

“You are feeling dizzy?”

“Like a ’possum in a barrel rolling downhill.”

“You need food.” He fell back upon the pillows. “Tucket shot a young elk before he left. He took some, and the rest is in the meat house. I will bring in the best pieces and prepare something more than soup to strengthen your blood.”

Kade heard Blind Deer’s movements grow faint and disappear. When he was sure she was gone, he tried once more to get up. Slumped over and blurry-eyed, he sucked in a deep breath and made it to the edge of the bed. His shoulder and rib cage painfully rebelled, and he exhaled slowly and with trepidation. Wasn’t there any part of his body still working like it was supposed to?

So far, each little movement was a misery and his head was beginning to throb worse than ever. He sure was a pitiful excuse for a man today, and he wasn’t good at being helpless. In fact, he was downright prideful when it came to admitting frailty of any kind. He gave himself no quarter, and to have his own body beyond his control seemed the ultimate betrayal.

He had to get up and get himself and Blind Deer to rendezvous.

Standing, he felt quite pleased with himself. Walking was another matter altogether. The unwieldy splint and the weakness in his one leg were a lethal combination. He spun around and barely made it back before falling face down on the bed.

****

Kade’s return to consciousness was encouraging. Although still dizzy, he sounded much stronger. Now what he needed was encouragement and good food.

Her happiness faded when she noticed the door to the meat house stood ajar, the wood at the bottom gnawed and broken, the earth in front dug up and scattered. Running the last few steps, she peered inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, her gaze took in the elk on the floor, torn to bits and scattered about in the dirt. A distinctly rancid smell told Blind Deer the reason for the destruction.

The wolverine snarled and turned to face her full on. His mouth a collection of long white teeth, shining bright even in the dim light. She threw the cook pot she carried at him and drew her knife. The metal container bounced harmlessly off the creature’s back, but the noise seemed to startle him for the moment. Blind Deer backed away. If she could make it back to the cabin, she’d be okay. Then her left foot came down on a twig, and the loud snap triggered the beast into action.

With a hideous snarl, he lunged forward. She slammed the door shut, feeling his weight smash up against the other side. Claws ripping and tearing, he extended one big paw through the hole he’d dug in the dirt at the bottom of the wooden panel. Still leaning against the door, she bent over and stabbed at his foot with her knife. He yelped and pulled back—she turned and ran.

Reaching the cabin, she stopped and looked back. She was safe. The wolverine hadn’t followed. He seemed content with the ruined elk so readily available. Dog barked inside. Should she turn her loose? Tangling with a wolverine, the outcome would be anybody’s guess, and it would serve no purpose. The food was ruined.

What was she going to do now? She couldn’t tell Kade. Knowing they were without food would concern him all the more. But he needed meat, and he needed it now.

There was only one answer. She would go hunting. Something she had never done before. When she was on her own, camas roots, vegetables, and berries kept her going, along with buying or trading for more substantial fare. Could she do this?

Slipping inside, she searched for an excuse to explain her delay in making Kade the promised meal. She needn’t have worried. He lay sprawled across the bed, unconscious again and full of fever. Obviously, he’d tried to get up and it had cost him dearly. She struggled to rearrange him in a normal sleeping position. Male pride was not good medicine.

Before he had taken his leave, Tucket had shown her how to load Kade’s longrifle. Powder, patch, ball—powder, patch, ball. As she located both powder horns and shooting pouch, she chanted the three words over and over as if they formed a sacred litany. If she got the order incorrect the rifle would not fire, or worse yet a ball could be stuck, rendering the rifle either useless or ready to explode when the trigger was pulled.

Ugh. The Kentucky rifle weighed more than she remembered. Stock down, muzzle up she balanced the weapon against her body, and hands shaking, she measured out the black pepper-like granules. Down the barrel it went, then tapping the side, she settled the powder.

With the patch knife, she cut off a small square of cotton shirting and sucked on the fabric to moisten the material. Her mouth was so dry she barely had enough spit to wet the tiny piece of linen. As saturated as it was likely to get, she laid the square flat across the muzzle. Carefully balancing a lead ball on top, sprue facing upward, she used the short starter to seat the ball.

After realigning the wooden implement, she pounded on it with the flat of her palm, painfully catching the webbing between her thumb and forefinger as the wood connected with the lip of the muzzle. Blood ran down her hand. How in the name of all her ancestors was she going to shoot anything when she couldn’t even load the gun without getting hurt?

She wiped her hand on her leather dress—the blood of a warrior, what a joke. Using the ramrod, she drove the ball down the barrel until it settled firmly. Weighed down with the powder horns, shooting pouch, a rope, and the rifle, she forced herself upright and shuffled over to Kade. Giving him one last look, she left the cabin.

She wanted to shoot the wolverine, if for nothing else than for revenge, or to release her fear and anger. But he was only trying to stay alive, and his flesh would be stringy and tainted by musk and the odor of the carrion he generally ate. When the food was gone, he would wander off.

****

Trekking through the woods for hours revealed only one game trail, but no large animals, or even a rabbit. Nothing moved in the area around Blind Deer. She usually saw all manner of creatures—some even came to her willingly. But then her intent had been friendly, now she sought to kill them. Somehow, they knew.

As she trudged along, the longrifle seemed to grow in weight and length, getting caught on brambles and branches, slowing her progress and making noise. Each step became a conscious effort—soon even the tiniest of stones tripped her up, and crossing a fallen log became almost insurmountable. In her tribe, hunting was not a woman’s right. Were the Spirits angry at her for trying? When the daylight waned, adding to her poor vision, she returned to the cabin empty handed.

****

For two more days, she repeated the grueling ritual, from sun up to sun down. Meanwhile, Kade grew weaker. He was dying. Tea, water, and flapjack crumbs couldn’t keep a healthy man alive, let alone heal a body as badly hurt as his had been. Tired and near starving herself, wild unchecked thoughts ran through her mind, and finding food became her dark obsession. What she wouldn’t give for a buffalo hump roast with prairie butter. Or even the spring shoots of balsamroot, the famine-food which had once saved her tribe following a brutal winter.

On the third morning, weak and dizzy, she sat down on a log, the loaded rifle across her lap. Maggie sat several yards away staring at her. The dog would willingly die for Kade. With this realization, a horrifying idea took form. A failure at hunting the white man’s way, maybe she should use Indian logic.

Blind Deer put powder in the flash pan, closed the frizzen, and cocked the hammer back. Bringing the rifle up to her shoulder, she fought to keep the heavy barrel from wavering as she brought the sights in line with dog’s head. The dog stared at her with trusting blue eyes, canting its head to one side as if questioning her actions. Blind Deer took a deep breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

Smoke filled the air, and the recoil nearly knocked her over backward. The ball smacked into a pine tree off to the left of Maggie. The dog yelped and ran through the woods—not once looking back.

The rifle slid from her grip to the ground. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, tears flowing unchecked. Sick at heart, she rocked back and forth. At the last moment, she had pulled to the side. What was she thinking? She couldn’t shoot dog. She looked too much like Coyote—the gods would never forgive her. And besides, her mother had been called Maggie, at least by her father.

Weak with the need for food, her mind wandered, and sitting up straight, her hands in her lap, a sad smile reached her lips. Mother had been so full of life, singing little songs under her breath, chattering on about the books she’d read and things she’d seen. Father had dubbed her his Magpie, which eventually became Maggie. A nice memory, perhaps even a good excuse for not shooting dog, but it didn’t put meat in the pot.

After resting a bit, Blind Deer rallied, and using her last bit of strength and gumption, she headed back to Kade. Along the way, she checked the bird nest she’d noticed earlier and gathered the broken bits of shell. Even these would hold nourishment.

Several yards from her destination, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Someone had been at the cabin.