HE’D BEEN HUNTING, THROWING STONES AT GROUSE HIDDEN in the trees along the riverbank. Two hung from his left hand, their grayish brown feathers ruffling in the breeze. He swung them as he walked, his thoughts on the train—and the yellow-haired woman. What day would the invaders arrive—the battle begin? When would he meet her?
The air was fragrant, thunder rumbling through the dark clouds. The strong breeze blowing down from the north murmured mournfully through the brush. A light rain fell. He lifted his face to the mist, letting the cool drops caress his skin.
As he approached the village, he frowned, steps slowing. Women scurried, dark hair flying out behind them. Dogs scampered between the tipis, barking as people rushed by. Anxiety welled suddenly. He gripped the thin necks of the grouse tighter as his dark eyes went over the scene. A group of strange horses whinnied and stamped in the corral. Children huddled in knots beneath the cottonwoods, frightened by the turmoil.
Wounded Bear stopped, confused. A lilting wail rose on the breeze, high and sharp. And shouts—bitter shouts of rage and pain.
In the distance, riders approached the village, travois dragging behind their horses. A solid line of tan dust marked their trail from the south. He shielded his eyes from the rain, studying the horses. Red Dog’s black and white mare led the procession. Fear shot through him. Red Dog had led the wagon train scouts! He stumbled forward, his feet catching on sage; then, as the shrill moaning from the travois met his ears, he ran, rushing headlong for the lodges, his heart in his throat. Battle? Had there been a battle? With the train?
Yellow Leaf met him as he entered the village, brown eyes wide and tormented. Her beaded doeskin dress was splattered with red, the blood filling in the spaces between the white and blue diamonds. Her black hair fluttered in the wind.
“Hurry!” she said, gripping his forearm tightly. “Box Elder has been calling for you. He needs your help with the wounded!”
He squinted, his voice soft with fear. “What happened?”
“The Dog Soldiers fought the bluecoats at Fort Caspar. Many were killed. Ours was the closest village so they brought—”
“Where is Box Elder?” he asked quickly, understanding now. Their scouts had joined forces with the raiding Dog Soldiers to fight the fort. The casualties from the fight had been hauled for days, their wounds tended only by fellow warriors on the run.
She raised a trembling hand and pointed up the dirt path between the lodges. “There, beneath the trees.”
He threw the grouse beside a lodge and strode forward, his steps heavy. He weaved between people who rushed to find strips of cloth for bandages or medicinal herbs. Tears streaked their brown faces, mourning for the dead already thick on the rain-soaked wind.
He worked his way to the grove, searching for the small
frail form of Box Elder. The injured were scattered through the shade of the towering cottonwoods. Wounded Bear stepped over a delirious warrior, careful not to disturb the silent, still forms around him. Most of the injured were pale and drawn, too weak to whimper their agony.
“Wait!” the fevered man breathed, eyes glassy as he blinked at the medicine bag hanging from Wounded Bear’s belt. The beaded bag contained a pipe and a few precious sacred objects. The injured warrior nodded, sweat coursing down his cheeks. The buckskins over his left leg were torn and clotted with blood. He reached an exhausted hand out to grip the fringes on Wounded Bear’s pants, then tugged weakly. “You’re a—holy man—sing—sing for me?”
Wounded Bear knelt, clasping the warrior’s fingers between his palms. The hand was hot and clammy, the stench of decaying flesh strong. His stomach rose acridly in his throat.
“The battle?” he asked anxiously. “Did we win, brother?”
The warrior smiled faintly, closing his eyes. “We killed many.”
Wounded Bear bowed his head—a victory. He lifted his voice in song, pleading with the Great Mystery to heal this brave fighter. As he sang, he studied the injury. Flies swarmed hungrily over the blackened blood, their buzzing so loud it seemed to dim the cries of the suffering. The wound was infected, swelling the leg to twice its normal size. The buckskin pants bulged. He swallowed—this warrior would die. The knowledge left him hollow. He squeezed the man’s sweaty palm, pushing away his raging emotions to murmur tenderly, “There, brother—you will live. Rest easy.”
“Cold,” the warrior mumbled, shivering suddenly. “Cold …”
Wounded Bear reached for a green and red blanket lying on the ground—it probably belonged to the warrior—and tucked it around the man, then brushed damp hair from his forehead. Hot. The warrior was so hot.
His legs were weak as he straightened and surveyed the grove of trees. At the far edge, away from the stream, the dead were wrapped in brightly colored blankets. Women wandered hauntingly through the bodies, searching for husbands, brothers, or sons. When relatives were identified, they were carried back to their lodges where they were cleaned and prepared for burial. High-pitched sobs undulated on the wind.
Under one huge cottonwood, a group of mourners wailed as their hair was cut by relatives; it was a badge of pain, a symbol of loss. Long strands of black fell to scatter on the ground like autumn leaves.
And through the agonized tapestry of sound, Wounded Bear heard the rhythmic rattle of a medicine gourd. His eyes searched the frantic scene, touching each possible source. Down the hill, hunching over a young boy, was a fragile figure. Box Elder’s white-filmed eyes were cast heavenward, the rattle in his hand shaking in time with his prayers. His long gray braids swept about as he sang, dragging through the blood covering the child’s bare chest.
Wounded Bear forced his numb feet forward, trying to prepare himself. Comforting injured children was the hardest task of a healer—and he was only just learning. He’d worked on three dying children, held their hands and murmured soft words to soothe their fears. Was the song of the aged shaman a death wail or a prayer for healing? He couldn’t tell through the clamor in the village. He quickened his pace, clamping his jaw in preparation for the worst—that the child was alive.
As he neared the shaman, he heard the boy mumbling incoherently and recognized the voice. It was Crow Foot. Pain welled strong in Wounded Bear’s breast, memories flashing. He remembered playing whoop-and-stick with this boy, spinning tops for him, scolding him when he was bad … judging a race only weeks ago.
One of the young warrior’s arms thrashed about, striking the medicine man in its senseless flight. Wounded Bear knelt down opposite Box Elder, on the other side of the child-warrior,
and grabbed the flailing arm, holding it to keep the boy from injuring either himself or the shaman. Splintered bone protruded from the child’s shoulder. The warrior slipped in and out of awareness, sometimes looking up imploringly at Wounded Bear, other times falling abruptly limp and quiet.
Box Elder finished his prayer, his voice trailing off into stillness as he turned blind eyes on Wounded Bear. His withered face was tired, aged head tottering.
“The bullet is lodged in bone,” he said unsteadily, pointing to the bloody hole in the boy’s shoulder. “We must take it out.”
Wounded Bear nodded, squinting at the torn flesh. Crow Foot was twelve, yet he rode like a man with Dog Soldiers, fighting the bluecoats, trying to drive them from Cheyenne lands. Box Elder pulled back the battered flesh around the wound. The boy was in a half-conscious state, his eyes fluttering open and closed, whispering incoherent, urgent half sentences.
“Coming … they’re coming … across the bridge … fight! Kill!”
He shuddered as the medicine man’s gnarled fingers probed beneath the skin for the bullet. Wounded Bear gripped the young arm tighter to prevent him from lashing out.
“N—No!” the boy suddenly screamed, rising up off the ground. Fresh blood flowed from where Box Elder had probed.
“Shhh, warrior,” Wounded Bear murmured into the child’s ear, saying the last word with pride.
The boy writhed, forcing Wounded Bear to throw a leg over his stomach to hold him still as Box Elder worked.
“Hurry!” Crow Foot growled frantically, “ … bluecoats … more, more coming!”
“Warrior,” Wounded Bear whispered, pressing his mouth to the boy’s ear. “You must not move. We’re going to take out the bullet.”
The child looked up with pained, wavering eyes, his fevered
mind still lost in the battle. “Run!” he shouted hoarsely, struggling with Wounded Bear. “Hide!”
“Hold him still!” Box Elder ordered hurriedly, jerking blood-encrusted fingers from the wound before more damage was done.
Wounded Bear laid his full weight on the boy’s chest and whispered, “We will hide here, all right? Together—they won’t find us.”
“They will!” the boy screamed and broke into sobs, struggling bitterly. “They will!”
“No,” Wounded Bear murmured into Crow Foot’s ear, gripping his arms so tightly he knew the flesh would be bruised. “I have spirit power, brother. The wolf told me we will live—both of us.”
Crow Foot’s rigid muscles relaxed some, his frantic eyes resting on Wounded Bear’s face. Some recognition flared and his frightened look faded. “Wounded Bear?”
“Yes, brother.”
The boy relaxed. Once again he felt safe, protected by the spiritual powers of this man. “The wolf?”
“Yes, my brother. The wolf came to me on the mountain. He told me of your bravery—said you would live.” It was a lie, he’d had no visions of the Fort Caspar battle, but the words seemed to comfort the boy.
“Live … live …” The boy forced a swallow and murmured the reassurance over and over. Rain splashed his face, but he didn’t seem to notice, eyes wide. “Hide … we will hide here.” His tone had changed, taken on a glimmering of hope. His young head nodded in fragile relief.
“Yes, brother. We will be safe. But you must lie still.”
Wounded Bear felt hollow. This child believed he could save him, that his frail spiritual powers could assure another day of life—of seeing another sunset or hearing the trill of the meadowlark. But Wounded Bear knew how shallowly founded that faith was … the wolf had not spoken to him in weeks.
The child-warrior clamped his jaw against the fear of the
soldiers and stared blindly at the roiling clouds over his head.
“Bullet mold,” Box Elder said, his weathered mouth pursed. “Get me a pair!”
Wounded Bear stroked the boy’s arm and gazed quickly around, knowing he could not get up to comply with the medicine’s man’s request. Yellow Leaf stood next to a tipi, arms crossed protectively over her breast. She watched an elderly man lift the lifeless body of his son from the area of the wounded and carry it down through the village to his lodge, legs wobbling under the weight and emotional strain. Her brown eyes were empty.
“Yellow Leaf,” he called. She jumped, startled, and turned to face him. “Quickly! Find a bullet mold!”
She raced away, the bells on her moccasins clinking as she ducked into a tipi. Wounded Bear waited anxiously. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still thundered over the mountains, the wind increasing to whistle through the cottonwoods. The fringes on his pants snapped against his legs.
In seconds, Yellow Leaf emerged from the tipi, a bullet mold in her hands, and ran headlong to him. Wounded Bear quickly took it from her outstretched fingers.
“I have the mold now, Holy One.”
Box Elder extended a quaking hand to accept the tool and Wounded Bear laid the mold in his warm, withered palm.
“Hold the boy,” the old man gently instructed, opening and closing the scissorlike mold.
“I will,” Wounded Bear answered softly, his gut tightening as he pressed his chest against the boy’s and squeezed the young arms hard.
Somewhere on the mountain a rifle boomed, and boomed again. Probably someone hunting food. But in Crow Foot’s mind they were shots from a white soldier’s rifle. He twisted frantically, kicking his legs.
“They’re here!” he screamed. “They’re here!”
Wounded Bear tried desperately to hold him still. Turning around to Yellow Leaf, he asked, “Can you hold his legs?”
“Yes.” She knelt down and grasped the boy’s knees, pressing them firmly to the ground.
“They’re passing by us, brother,” Wounded Bear murmured into his ear. “See? They don’t see us. The power of the wolf makes us invisible. Lie still—still.”
Crow Foot’s muscles tightened, his breathing growing shallow. “The wolf?” he repeated.
“Yes, the wolf has blinded their eyes to us—we are safe. Just don’t move.”
The boy’s fevered eyes were glazed, but not a muscle in his body moved.
Box Elder probed the wound again, his fingers moving like worms beneath the skin. Crow Foot seemed oblivious to the pain.
“There,” said the medicine man. “The lump of lead …” He wriggled the mold inside the warrior’s bloody shoulder, then fastened the cupped ends around the protruding metal of the bullet and pulled … and pulled again—and again.
Wounded Bear’s heart ached as he watched the futile action. The bullet was lodged too deeply in the bone. They’d have to try something else. Box Elder removed the mold, sighing as he tenderly patted the warrior’s injured shoulder. Bits of tissue clung to the iron device, blood dripping from the mold to run down the medicine man’s arm.
“Your knife has been blessed?” he asked Wounded Bear, his aged face grave. The white-filmed eyes shone darkly in the cloudy daylight.
“Yes,” he answered, pulling the sharp blade from its sheath and laying it in Box Elder’s hand.
Crow Foot’s muscles cramped and quivered as if he were suddenly aware of what was happening—aware enough to know what came next.
Box Elder wiped tired blood-encrusted fingers over his wrinkled brow as he took a deep breath. His forehead smeared with crimson.
He lowered the knife to the boy’s flesh.
Wounded Bear pressed harder on the boy’s arms, and
signaled Yellow Leaf to do the same with his legs. She looked up, meeting his impassioned face. They exchanged a soft look before he pulled his gaze away. As always, there was love in her eyes when she looked at him. It made him sad—the knowledge that she loved him. He returned his attention to the young warrior.
“Sing,” Box Elder whispered.
Wounded Bear’s voice rose strong and full, his praises for the warrior’s bravery carrying on the wind to filter through the trees and drift upward to God. Rain patted steadily against the silver sage. People throughout camp turned to look and listen. The mourning wails quieted for a tense moment. Somewhere in the trees a drumbeat began, the rhythm timed to his voice. His song faltered as the child-warrior flinched—muscles straining against pain. Wounded Bear sang louder, trying to project strength to the young man. Box Elder was slicing through living tissue, going down for the bullet. Blood oozed up, bright red and thick, flowing over the boy’s breast to soak the ground. Crow Foot barely whimpered.
Wounded Bear glanced at Yellow Leaf. Her face was puckered, tears glistening on her lashes as she pressed firmly against the boy’s quaking legs. Sorrow filled her eyes.
Box Elder held the bloody flesh open with his fingers, then took the point of the knife and worked it beneath the bullet, levering up, trying to pry the lead loose. The knife made a shrill scraping sound against the bone.
“The bluecoats,” Box Elder whispered as he worked, “did they follow?”
Wounded Bear looked up suddenly—the thought hadn’t occurred to him. His eyes drifted anxiously over the sage-covered hills, half expecting to hear the call of bugles as the soldiers rode down upon them. He turned to Yellow Leaf, his gaze questioning. She shook her head. He closed his eyes for a moment and sucked in a relieved breath. “No, Holy One.”
Finally the flattened ball came loose and the medicine man dug bloody fingers through the ragged hole to lift it
out. Clutching it tightly in his palm, he stared blindly at Yellow Leaf. “Bandage his shoulder,” he ordered and stood up.
Reaching down, he put a hand on Wounded Bear’s shoulder. “There are others,” he said.
“A moment, Holy One?”
The old man nodded and hobbled resolutely away, giving him time.
Wounded Bear leaned down again, brushing his cheek against the boy’s. “You make me proud, warrior,” he said.
The boy swallowed, relieved, and closed his eyes.
Wounded Bear got to his feet and looked at Yellow Leaf. Her black hair fluttered wildly in the wind, strands wet from rain. “Will you be all right?” he asked her. “Do you need help?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “You go. Heal the others.”
He nodded, touching her shoulder lightly. The grateful look she gave him made him tired. His eyes traced the lines of her beautiful face, resting on her heart-shaped mouth. He did not know why he didn’t love her. He flexed the fingers at his sides, thinking. His heart was just cold. Smiling wanly, he held her warm gaze. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She timidly reached up to pat the hand on her shoulder, dropping her eyes before he could see the emotion well. “Go.”
He turned and strode away, the hollow feeling in his breast stronger now than five minutes ago. He balled his fists as he walked, telling himself it could not be otherwise, that the spirit world had condemned him to a solitary life. Yet, somewhere below his consciousness, a voice cried out that he was wrong.
He tugged his thoughts away from Yellow Leaf and back to the village, opening his eyes and ears. The dull roar of thunder mixed with the piercing wails of the mourners to sound hauntingly like the howling and growling of wolves. His thoughts returned to his spirit helper and the deep voice
of the wolf whispered in his mind “ … are you willing?” He nodded to himself, turning his eyes to the dark, roiling clouds as he picked up his feet and trotted forward, running to help Box Elder.
Night was heavy when the last of the injured was carried home by his family. Wounded Bear stretched his exhausted muscles, raising his arms over his head. His limbs were leaden, his back aching as though it had been pounded with a hammer. Box Elder sat propped against a cottonwood, his head bowed in sleep. The old man had worked feverishly with the badly wounded, yielding to the sweet oblivion of sleep only when he knew Wounded Bear could handle the remaining men. Should he wake him? he wondered. No, he shook his head, Box Elder’s lodge would be only a little more comfortable than the warm night breeze.
He walked out away from camp. He was numb, his hands and clothing stained brown with dried blood. Dessicated clots formed irregular mounds on his pant legs. Six men had died in his arms that day, their haunted eyes growing suddenly still, their pain quieted as the last breath seeped from their lungs. His soul hurt. He gazed up at the shimmering stars. The clouds had blown by, leaving the black sky crystal clear.
He crossed his arms over his blood-stiffened buckskin shirt, mind rambling. Perhaps that was the only real freedom men had—the freedom to die honorably. The rest was just a scurrying to escape suffering—to outguess the cruel judgments of the spirit world. He dug his fingers into his arms. All of existence seemed nothing more than facing death.
His thoughts soured. He furrowed his brow and strolled toward a high knoll overlooking the eastern horizon. A thin sliver of moon was rising, silver light dotting the highest hilltops. Emptiness filled him, deadening his physical senses and opening his mind to forbidden questions. The spirits fought on the side of his people, informing, protecting … didn’t they? He climbed the sandy hill, thoughts hauntingly
riveted to the reasons for life and the roles of the spirits. When he reached the top, he stopped. There was already someone sitting on the opposite side. He sighed and turned to walk away.
“Don’t go,” Yellow Leaf said timidly, standing. Her tall body was straight and willowy in the moonlight. “I’m leaving.”
“No”—he held up a hand and walked toward her—“stay.”
She smiled awkwardly and sat down again. He dropped beside her, stretching his exhausted legs and leaning back on his elbows. His tired shoulders cried out. He shifted positions, lying flat on the cool sand. The white beads on his moccasins gleamed in the moonlight. He stared at them, trying not to notice how Yellow Leaf’s hands fumbled with her doeskin skirt.
“Seventeen lived?” she asked, gazing out at the rustling sage.
“Yes.” His tongue was heavy with the words, but six died! He couldn’t say them. To utter the sentence aloud would be admitting his spiritual impotence. He was a medicine man! He was supposed to heal.
Yellow Leaf seemed to sense his anxiety. “Crow Foot is sleeping soundly. Box Elder says his fever is down. Is that what’s worrying you? He’ll be all right.”
“It’s not Crow Foot. I felt he would live.”
“You’re a very great medicine man. I never doubted he’d—”
“Don’t say that.” He shifted uncomfortably, plucking a sprig of sage and twisting it in his hands. “Death tramps tirelessly through our camps—no matter what I do. If I were truly—”
“If the Great Mystery decides to take someone, not even the greatest healer can stop it. It’s not your fault.”
“But it makes no sense. Those warriors—”
“Should it?”
He looked up at her. Her beautiful face was blank. He
lightly beat the sage on his fringed pants. “Yes—yes, of course it should.”
Her voice was soft and high, sweet. “Should the Great Mystery reveal all things to us?” Her hair fluttered in the night wind. He watched the strands dance in the moonlight. Somewhere in the distance a pack of coyotes serenaded the darkness.
He rubbed his fingers over the rough bark of the sage branch. “Not everything—but more.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Pain,” he answered wearily. “Its purpose …”
She wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed northward at the dark mountains. The ragged edges of the peaks were softened by the night, looming tall and rounded against the background of stars.
“And—and the yellow-haired woman?” she asked timidly, a twinge of jealousy underlying the words. She fumbled with her moccasin ties, her nervous movements making the bells jingle.
He blinked thoughtfully. The rumors of how the woman returned again and again to haunt him had spread like wildfire through the village. He leaned his head back and studied the stars. They looked like ice crystals strewn over a black blanket.
“Yes—and the yellow-haired woman.”
“She still comes to you?”
“Yes.” He swept the branch nervously over the sand. “She was gone for a time—but she’s come back.”
“In your dreams?”
“Every night.”
Yellow Leaf shifted to sit cross-legged facing him. Her fingers smoothed the sand by his arm. “The wolf sends her?”
Wounded Bear squinted at the crescent moon, unsure how or whether to answer. He plucked a sage leaf from his branch and put it in his mouth, biting down on the pungent plant. “I—don’t know.”
“But probably?”
He made an uncertain gesture with his hand. “I think so.”
“You love her?”
He hesitated, thoughts whirling tiredly through his mind. Did he? He watched Yellow Leaf from the corner of his eye. Her brow was furrowed, eyes lowered to stare at the sandy ground.
“She is not my friend—not like you.”
A faint smile glimmered on her lips, then faded quickly, replaced by a frown. She fumbled with her skirt again. “As your friend, may I tell you something?”
Her anxious tone made his muscles go rigid. He propped his head on one hand and rolled to his side. “What?”
“Some—some of the elders are saying this white woman is a witch who comes to harm us—through you.”
His mind returned tiredly to Little Deer’s words weeks before. His brother had said they were calling the woman a “ghost,” not a witch. The latter was a far more serious charge. Adrenaline flushed his system at the news. “Who—who says this?”
Yellow Leaf tilted her head awkwardly and lowered her voice. “Even Box Elder.”
“You—you lie! You say that only because you …” He stopped himself just short of accusing her of spiteful jealousy—and clenched his fists to still his emotions.
She got to her feet, keeping her face turned away, and started down the hill.
“No—wait!” he pleaded, extending a hand. “Please—I … I’m just—tired. I don’t know what I’m saying—or thinking.”
She stopped, her back to him, listening. The silver light made her white dress shimmer.
“I know you would not say it, if it weren’t true.”
The hands at her sides trembled. “Be careful, Wounded Bear,” she said softly. “Tell no one about her again. Already old men are whispering you need a shaman to take her out of your heart.”
He got to his feet, his mind reeling. The people wanted
to force him—a medicine man!—to undergo a witch ritual! He tried to calm himself. If such rumors were being passed it meant the tribe was gravely worried about the yellow-haired woman.
“Yellow Leaf?”
She turned halfway around to look at him. Tears sparkled in her eyes. He felt shame for having hurt her when she was trying to help him. He shrugged futilely.
“I thank you for telling me.”
She nodded and walked quickly away toward camp. He watched her go, confusion and hurt strong in his soul.
“A witch?” he said aloud, turning his attention to the stars again. “She isn’t …” He paused, studying the pinpoints of light. Doubt crept through him, searing his thoughts.
“Couldn’t be …”
Colleen sneaked out of camp, hiding between wagons until the few sentries were far enough apart they wouldn’t see her, then crossed downstream from the road crew and followed a deer trail up a rocky hillside. Not that it mattered much. Though Sawyers had warned people to stay close to camp, few obeyed. The river had become a place of both work and play, where people gathered to wash clothes and talk or fill water barrels. And the guards seemed to care little, usually ignoring the actions of the civilians.
The path she followed wove around scrub pine and over sandstone ledges. She let her mind wander as she walked. She needed time alone. Though the O’Brians were very kind, they were always close, especially Elizabeth, who had become her constant companion—and the company kept her mind occupied and off the painful decisions she had to face.
When she was about a quarter mile from the train, she found a place in the shade to sit and settled herself against a large boulder. Below, on the banks of Hat Creek, the road crew was collecting its tools and heading back to camp for supper. The dust from the men’s difficult labors filled the
air like fog, glowing dimly lavender in the fading rays of daylight.
She let her eyes drift over the desert. The winding ribbons of plateau furrowed their black brows at the coming nightfall, yawning dark against the pastel sky. A cool evening breeze was blowing, playing with the wisps of blond hair that fell over her shoulders.
Her mind rambled. Fresh Indian sign had been spotted by the scouts that morning. The tracks said that the warriors had stopped suddenly and retreated after sighting the train. Colleen crossed her arms against the increasing chill. She felt a little fear of the Indians, but not enough to prevent her from seeking the solitude necessary to think out her problems.
She was confused about Robert. She didn’t love him and never had, though she’d always hoped the emotion would come. Now she was certain it wouldn’t. Yet, she was still his wife and her marriage vows were unbreakable, the bond between them sacred. She could still hear Father Donovan’s ominous tone when he’d pronounced them man and wife. It had been a threat. Instead of saying “I now pronounce you man and wife,” he could just have as easily substituted, “And if you’ve a notion to break this bond, remember that hell’s fire is just over the horizon!”
She wiped a strand of blond hair from her eyes and tucked it neatly behind her ear, then gazed out to the sunset. The horizon had grown darker, shimmering a deep blue. A herd of mule deer grazed warily a few hundred feet away. The lead doe eyed her curiously, ears pricked, ready to bound away at the first hostile movement.
And there was Matthew. She cringed, knowing her feelings toward him verged on adultery, and though she hadn’t yet sinned in the flesh, she’d certainly sinned in her mind. What was it Jesus had said about lusting in the heart? She couldn’t recall, but it was just as bad as sinning in the flesh—that much she remembered. She sighed uncomfortably and smoothed her yellow skirt. It was curious that the words “sin” and “Matthew” were inextricably linked in her
thoughts, like “good” and “morning,” or “holy” and “Bible,” they just seemed to go together. It was disturbing.
She’d been thinking so seriously that she hadn’t noticed the sun had slipped well below the horizon and darkness was swelling around her. Crickets chirruped nearby and stars were poking through the dark blue overhead. She blinked suddenly and jumped. Campfires sparkled across the creek. She had to get back!
She put a hand on the sandstone boulder and pushed up. A ripping sound greeted her efforts.
“Oh, blast!”
Her skirt was caught tight on a thorny bush. She tugged hard and more fabric tore, the abrupt sound silencing the crickets.
“Well!” she said, tugging harder, but the dress wouldn’t come loose.
She knelt, pushing yards of dirty yellow material out of her way to find the location of the snag. Her hands thrust into a stiff prickly pear cactus. She cried out sharply and jerked her fingers back, putting them in her mouth and pulling tines out with her teeth.
Standing up again, anger took hold and she threw all of her weight against the snag. With a loud shriek the fabric pulled loose and she tumbled to the ground, landing on her stomach.
Exasperated, she swore under her breath and stood yet again. The countryside took on a different character at night, becoming ominous. She clutched her ruined skirt, lifting it slightly off the ground, and started quickly down the rocky slope. The wind grew stronger as she walked, making the pines creak and whistle eerily. Fear welled in her breast.
“Shhh!” she hissed to herself, hoping the effort would hush her inner sense of panic.
A stick cracked behind her. She froze, her heart beating like a kettle drum. She wanted to turn around but wouldn’t let herself for fear that any shadow would send her mind reeling in terror. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and stiffened her spine, then proceeded down the slope.
The stones became slippery in the darkness. Her feet repeatedly slid off the black rocks to land hard against the rough ground, jarring her whole body. Her ankles were raw from rock scrapes and her knees had begun to tremble. To make matters worse, clouds were rolling in, thunder rumbling jaggedly across the plains. Darkness grew heavier until she could no longer make out her feet. She started to rush, her fear increasing.
As she swept down the hillside, unseen objects reached up to trip her. Her foot caught on an exposed tree root and she toppled to the ground, striking her knee on a rock. Pain flashed through her, bringing tears to her eyes. Fumbling with her skirt, she snaked her hand to the injured area. It felt warm and moist. Blood.
As she lay there, her eyes darted frantically over the darkness, her breathing growing more shallow and hurried by the second.
“Stop it!” she commanded, but her mind wasn’t convinced. Her eyes continued their search.
Her injured knee ached miserably as she got to her feet. Gingerly she put her weight on it and felt with her toes for purchase, then picked her way carefully toward the creek bed.
Another sound met her ears. It was a soft, rhythmic panting, the sound a man would make after running, or an animal … Cold fear traced fingers up her spine as she whirled. There, coming down the slope was a white form.
She screamed as she turned and ran headlong down the hill. The underbrush tore savagely at her skirt, but she couldn’t stop. The panting came closer, she could almost feel the hot breath on her exposed legs.
An icy wind swept across her face as she approached the stream. The sides were incredibly steep and in the darkness she couldn’t see the crossing she’d climbed up. She ran back and forth in front of the bank, tears streaming hotly down her cheeks. Stumbling, she fell flat against the hard-packed clay. A dull thud echoed.
She jerked her head to look behind her. The animal was
gaining. She could see its black eyes glinting in the dim light. And another sound reached her ears—a voice. Was it calling her name? Terror ravaged her mind, the fear so blinding and powerful that she could not think. All she could do was run.
She scrambled over the steep bank, clawing at the crumbling walls and falling several feet to the water below. Splashing into the stream, her face was smothered in cold liquid. She gasped for breath, coughing as she came to the surface.
She looked up. A huge white face leaned over the bank; the wolf stared down at her and crouched to jump into the water.
A ragged scream was torn from her throat. She crawled through the water to the other side of the stream and dug her fingers into the wall to pull herself up.
On the other side of the bank, the wolf dove lightly into the water and padded to stand below Colleen as she climbed. Standing up on its hind legs, it pawed at her, catching a piece of her skirt and pulling.
“No!” she shrieked at the beast and tugged her skirt loose, then climbed higher.
“Colleen?” a deep, smooth voice called.
Fear filled her mind. “Leave me alone!” She pulled herself up over the bank, and ran blindly for the wagons.
Campfires glowed ahead. She turned her back to the creek. The wolf leapt gracefully to the tableland and trotted behind her.
“Colleen?”
She ran wildly but it was catching her, its gallop cutting the distance between them to a dozen feet. “Matthew!” she screamed hoarsely. “Matthew!”
Her lungs were bursting, the heaving sobs choking her until she couldn’t breathe.
A dark form ran toward her from the camp.
“Colleen?” Matthew shouted.
“Colleen?” the wolf called.