Читать книгу Sweet Sarah Ross - Julie Tetel - Страница 6

May 1836

On the Oregon Trail

Sarah knelt at a shady spot on the bank of the river and wondered what all the fuss was supposed to be about. In the two weeks since she’d left Independence, Missouri, the trip west had certainly not lived up to its arduous reputation. Instead it had been rather more like a pleasant outing. The only disagreeable aspect of the journey—besides the presence of her bratty little sisters, of course—was that horrible Mrs. Fletcher who had joined their wagon train at the last minute. Sarah was determined to put the old gossip in her place before they arrived in Oregon at the end of the summer.

Dipping her hands into the shallow water, she admitted to herself that difficulties might lie ahead. Nevertheless, nothing she had experienced thus far compared to the dire stories she had heard back in Independence. She was inclined to think that the tellers of those tales either intended to scare off the faint of heart or were faint-hearts themselves.

She splashed her face and allowed her sense of self-satisfaction to expand. She hadn’t wanted to come on this trip, but she was pleased to judge herself an excellent traveler even when the conditions were far beneath her. No, she hadn’t wanted to come, but when she had refused William’s insipid offer of marriage, her usually loving mother had been unaccountably angry with her and demanded that she accompany the family on the journey to join her brother and his wife, who had settled years ago in the Oregon Territory.

Even her normally reasonable father had refused to understand the logic of her arguments in favor of staying behind in Maryland, and had cut her off by saying, “This time, Sarah Ross, you’ll not wrap me around your little finger.” It had been too absurd of him to fail to see that at the mature age of almost twenty-two she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Not to mention that she had money of her own—never minding the fact that she wouldn’t have access to it for a few more years yet. And to have accused her of wheedling had been unjust!

Drinking from cupped hands, Sarah tasted the purity of the river, felt the chill against her teeth. She was caught short by the stray thought that here one could never feel tired or old. She rose to her feet and critically surveyed her surroundings. The broad green river braided before her and away on either side. Grassland sloped up behind her. An improbable indigo sky bowled above. A dry breeze rustled around her, mixing the scent of grass and sandy loam. The calm pulse of the prairie hummed in her ears.

When confronted with odd experiences, she often imagined how her father—her real father, the General—might have reacted, and she paused to consider what he would have thought of the rustic charms of this wilderness adventure. With a sniff she concluded that he would have agreed that she deserved the elegancies of life, not the rigors, and with some distaste she found a secluded clump of trees where she relieved herself. Afterward she adjusted her skirts and twitched her shawl into place. Then she secured the ties of the reticule hanging from her waist and fiddled coquettishly with the brim of her bonnet as if she were stepping out into a fashionable shopping street in Baltimore.

She was about to return to the wagon train circled beyond the slope behind her just out of sight, when the afternoon calm was shattered by piercing cries. Suddenly, she was distracted by glinting flashes of splashing water at the edge of the riverbed about twenty feet away from her. She had taken a half step out from the shelter of trees but quickly drew back in and behind the nearest tree trunk. A large, strange beast was lumbering in the water, balanced only on its hind legs, moving in her direction. Her heart jumped to her throat when the beast turned the bend in the river and began to head straight for the trees.

She would have made a run for it up the grassy slope, back to the safety of the wagon train, had it not been for the effect of a renewed volley of raucous whoops that assailed her ears. The terrifying sounds seemed to be coming precisely from the direction of the wagon train. The thought Wild Indians! stabbed through her brain and halted its normal functioning. The vision of the wild beast coming toward her paralyzed her legs. She stood frozen, staring wide-eyed at the beast, who was still upright, hardly swaying at all. Its hair was dark and curled chaotically around its head. Its eyes were a ferocious blue. It looked strong and remarkably surefooted for a—a—

For a human beast. Terror turned to shock, then dissolved into confusion, which meant at least her brain was working again, even if her feet weren’t. She blinked. Yes, it—no, he—was a human beast—a human being. It—he, it was definitely a he—was tall. The skin on his face and arms and broad shoulders was brown, as if accustomed to the sun. His skin was a bright burnt pink across his belly and down his—

At that moment she fully registered the fact that the man-beast was stark naked.

She shut her eyes and ducked her head behind the tree trunk. She strained to hear the sounds of the man-beast’s approach. Through the clamor filling the air behind her, she detected the splish-splash of feet leaving water. The soft clunk of rock tapping rock. A stick breaking hardly two feet away. Then…

The man-beast stopped running. He was so close to her that she could hear him panting and feel the radiating heat of his exertion. She caught the scent of a body pushed hard, but still strong and healthy. He splayed a palm against the tree next to the one behind which she was hidden, at such an angle that a sinewy forearm muscle appeared in high relief at her eye level. He leaned against the tree and hung his head so that the sunburned nape of his neck was visible to her.

She shrank back, wishing she was invisible. She could tell that the man-beast was winded. If she was going to get away, now was the time.

Her feet wouldn’t move.

Then she became aware of a sudden silence more frightening than the savage cries that had rent the air moments before. In retrospect she perceived that the war whoops had been answered with gunfire, but now the guns had nothing left to say. She felt more than saw that the man-beast cocked his head slightly and pricked his ears, as if he, too, perceived the meaning of the deafening silence. She held her breath and hoped she wouldn’t faint from the pounding in her chest and thunderous drumming in her ears. She clutched at the crossed ends of her shawl and hung on to them for dear life.

Her poor, overworked heart was subjected to yet another assault when the man-beast suddenly whirled. Before she could even squeak in fright, one of his hands came down to clamp her mouth while the other grasped her shoulder and wrenched her against his sweat-soaked body. She writhed but did not effect her release from his grip. Nose to nose with him, she was eyeing two blue pools swimming with madness or exhaustion.

His gaze came into focus. It roamed her face, circled her bonnet, returned to the hand held over her mouth. He bent toward her ear and croaked softly, “Don’t speak. Too dangerous.”

She could only stare at him.

To emphasize his point, he pressed the hand at her mouth. On the barest of breaths he demanded, “Promise.”

She nodded vigorously. He slowly withdrew his hand from her mouth but didn’t release the grip on her shoulder. He moved a half pace away and surveyed her top to toe. Fear and a proper upbringing prevented her from doing the same to him. His hand at her shoulder was squeezing hard enough to hurt her, but some ancient instinct warned her not to reveal any weakness.

The hand at her shoulder began to fall, dragging her shawl with it. He managed to say, “Let go.”

It dawned on her that the man-beast spoke a version of civilized English, and a ripple of relief coursed through her. This was followed by a veritable wave of relief when the significance of his request sank in. He wants my shawl to cover himself! It took a moment, however, for the command from her sluggish brain to reach the fingers wrapped so tightly around the shawl ends. Eventually her fingers uncramped, one by one, and she handed the large square cloth over to him. She felt better at the mere thought of the man-beast wearing some sort of clothing.

Upon accepting the cloth, the man-beast sat down on the ground, and the next thing she knew, he was tearing the delicate material in two. Her slight surge in good feeling turned swiftly to puzzlement, then yielded to indignation. Instead of covering that which no lady should see, he proceeded to bind his feet!

She didn’t know what to make of it. Nor could she observe him at length without causing herself great embarrassment So she turned her back to him and considered what to do next, now that he—the man-beast, her captor, whatever he might be—was preoccupied. She saw her opportunity to scramble up the slope and see what she could of the wagon train.

From behind her came quiet words that seemed to have rattled up and out a rusted pipe. “Don’t go…there…yet.”

She never took kindly to orders, and knew of no reason why she should obey one from a naked man-beast, but the tone of that statement was ominous enough to give her pause. She whispered back, “My father and mother are there.”

“Not time. Not yet.”

“My sisters, too.”

To that he said nothing, and his lack of response brought horrific visions to her mind’s eye. She stood immobile once again, this time from fear for her loved ones. Perhaps she still had reason to fear for herself, but her best assessment of her immediate circumstances said she didn’t. The man-beast hadn’t attempted to kill her for the shawl, and he obviously had no weapons concealed on his person. She knew that he was strong, but judging from the muffled grunts and groans coming from him as he worked on his feet, she guessed that his body was in great pain and that his strength was nearly spent.

At thoughts of the fate of her family, her vision blurred and her stomach churned. Go over the slope? Or stay here?

More words broke into her indecision. “If your family is…still there, you can do nothing…for them now,” he said. “If your family has…escaped, you are only…exposing yourself…to capture…by the Sioux. Might still be around. Probably are.”

The Sioux. She had a hazy recollection of hearing something about them in Independence. “The Sioux are hostile?”

His grunt confirmed the worst. He had apparently finished with his feet, but didn’t rise. Instead she heard him settle against the trunk of the tree behind her. She cast a curious, cautious glance over her shoulder and saw that he had positioned himself out of her line of sight. She could see only one corner of his shoulder and an arm bent at the elbow. The hand had disappeared and was no doubt resting against his invisible hip. She supposed she should be thankful for his delicacy, whether or not it had been intended.

He added with great weariness, as if to himself, “No sense killing yourself…unless you’ve a mind to die.”

She slid down the trunk and sat at the base of her tree. So. Here she was in a clump of trees in the middle of nowhere, not more than a foot away from a naked man-beast, and possibly surrounded by Sioux. Anger and outrage and helplessness overcame her. Seizing on the most immediate injustice, she began on a harsh whisper, “Why, sir, did you—”

The absurdity of calling him “sir” stopped her midsentence. She began again, this time very deliberately. “Why, sir, did you rip my shawl and bind your feet when the material could have been put to much better use?”

“My bloody feet,” he replied with labored breath, “are blazing…a trail.”

“For the Sioux to follow, you mean?”

“For prairie wolves, too. Can smell blood…and a festering wound…a mile away.”

Prairie wolves sounded worrisome, but she decided to take her worries one at a time. “If the Sioux are following you, why did they fall upon our peaceful wagon train?”

His reply came after a lengthy pause. “I’m guessing…they think…I found refuge…in your party.”

“It’s because of you, then, that our wagon train was attacked?”

“Pioneers travel…at their own risk.”

The callousness of that remark caused her to raise her voice above a whisper. “So if my family lies dead yonder, I’m not to blame you?” she snapped back.

“Some of your wagons…must have gotten away. The Sioux have not…been able to count me…among the dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re not looking…for me…here. Not yet Which means…they might be trailing…wagons that got away.”

It was a glimmer of hope for her family but not much more. “Why do they want you dead?”

“I was on their land. Took me prisoner. Got away. Were going to kill me any way…but now their desire…has doubled. Honor at stake.”

“How did you get away?”

“Old tribal dispute. Sioux warriors took off…like somebody set…breechclouts afire. Left me with the squaws.”

“That was lucky.”

The frail sound that came from his throat was a brittle ghost of a laugh. “Sioux squaws no bargain. Take to torturing with pleasure. Warriors rode off…with all the ponies in camp. I cut loose…started to run.”

“You ran? Just like that?”

He drew a deep breath, seemed to strangle on a dry cough. “The squaws came close to catching me…with my hands tied and all. My legs are longer. Knew what would happen…if they caught me.”

As intrigued as she was by the notion of Sioux squaw bloodlust, she didn’t think the sound of the war whoops she had heard had come from women, and she said as much.

“When warriors returned…they took after me, too. By that time…I had gotten my hands free…and was far enough off…to keep ahead of them.”

“You’ve been running all day?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, as if from far off, came the answer, “All day…and day before. All night, too. I’ve covered…maybe fifty miles…barefoot.”

She reassessed the gravity of his physical condition and wondered if he’d survive the night.

“I’m mortal thirsty. The river tempts me…but I’ll not risk an arrow through my heart…after all I’ve done…to stay alive.”

“You didn’t drink when you, were running through the river?”

“Didn’t want to waste time…. Stuck my tongue out and caught what drops I could…splashing along.”

“But that’s nonsensical to run through water and come out of it dying of thirst!”

“I chose the water route…to lose my scent. Not to drink.”

“I suppose you’ve learned your lesson now,” she said primly, trying not to feel sorry for him, since he was the immediate cause of her misfortune.

“You could…fetch me water. It might be…worth the risk…to be rid…of your fool conversation…for a few minutes…or forever.”

She gasped at the insult and thought it mighty cheeky of a man-beast on his last legs who, now that she came to think of it, might just have to depend on her for survival—that is, if she was of a mind to help him survive, which, at the moment, she was not.

“And if you’re thinking…of leaving me…to my own devices…I’ll ask you…two questions.”

Since she was thinking just that, she swerved her head and found herself looking into a pair of blue eyes no longer glazed, but still rimed with red and shot with blood.

“Can you…kill and skin…a rabbit?”

“No, but—”

“And do you know…how to start a fire…with two sticks?”

“Well, I’ve never had occasion to try, but how hard could—”

“Then the scissors…in the bag…you’re wearing…just might save…the both of us.”

Surprised, she stared openmouthed at him until she recalled that when he had pressed her to him, he must have felt against his bare thigh the small metal shape in the reticule hanging from her waist. She flushed with embarrassment at the thought of that intimate contact, then turned back around. There was absolutely nothing to say to that, so she resolutely closed her mouth, until it occurred to her that his objective had been to shut her up. But when she opened her mouth again, no words came. So she sat there, speechless, her thoughts colliding so violently and her emotions roiling so precipitously that she was beginning to feel seasick.

The sun shifted. The shadows lengthened in the minuscule glade. The man-beast didn’t move from his seated position at the base of the tree. He might have dozed off. He might have died. Her first thought was that it would serve him right. Her second thought was that she would be without someone who knew how to make a fire and find food. She scooted over to him on all fours to see whether or not he was still breathing.

She peered into his face, which was streaked with dirt and sweat. His eyes were closed and lined with fatigue. His jaw was slack and stubbled with several days’ dark growth, as was his chin. His lips were so parched they were cracked and white in places. She couldn’t risk a glance down the length of his body to check out the feet wrapped in pieces of her shawl, but he was breathing. Definitely breathing.

He was also alert. She had hardly completed her inspection of his face when his hand shot out and grasped her forearm so hard that she yelped involuntarily.

“Don’t,” he said softly, without opening his eyes, “do that again.”

She wriggled her arm, and he let it go. She withdrew to her tree. “Don’t make sure you’re breathing?” she whispered in return. “Or don’t cry out?”

“Both.”

“I’m going to get you some water,” she said. Sioux or no Sioux, she was pretty sure that his body needed water desperately, and she saw the wisdom of keeping alive the means of her possible salvation. She began to rise.

“Not yet,” he said.

Thinking she had not heard him aright, she glanced over her shoulder and craned her neck to see that his eyes were open. He looked up at the sky, around their hiding place, over at the river. “Still too early,” he pronounced.

“But you’re dying of thirst,” she protested.

“I wasn’t kidding…about Sioux arrows.” He lolled his head on his shoulder and looked at her. His expression bordered on the grimly humorous. “I might need you…as much as you…need me.”

“It’s something that you admit it,” she replied, sitting back down.

He grunted. “Just…my luck.”

She was about to respond in kind when she recalled the fifty miles he had covered barefoot. With great restraint, she said, “I’m willing to allow that it is extreme dehydration that makes you disagreeable, so I’ll overlook that remark. About the Sioux, though, I judge it to be a few hours ago already that they came through here. They haven’t been down to the river, at least, not to this part of it, so it seems safe enough to venture out to get you some water and see the damage that has been done at the wagon train.”

“Might have gone…to higher ground…about a half mile away. They have eagle eyes.”

She wasn’t a complete dolt. “They certainly couldn’t shoot me at a range of a half mile.”

He regarded her balefully. “Don’t want them to discover…our hiding place.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “I didn’t know you meant that the arrow through the heart would come sometime after the trip to the river.” At her most proper, she intoned, “You will let me know, sir, when it is time.”

“Until then, quiet. Just be…quiet.”

She was thirsty and irritable herself and mighty anxious about what lay beyond the grassy slope. But she held her tongue, although the effort nearly killed her. In truth, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of speaking. He wouldn’t have to tell her twice to shut up, but then she remembered that he had, in so many words, told her twice to shut up.

Thereafter her brain was so busy picking the sore of her lacerated dignity—which another part of her brain knew full well was happily keeping her from contemplating worse thoughts—that she didn’t hear him the first time he said softly, “It’s time.” When he repeated it loud enough for her to register it, she looked around her to see that evening was stealing through their hiding place and veiling their surroundings in moving shadows.

It wasn’t until she was at the river’s edge that she wondered how she would transport water back to him. She looked around for some kind of hollowed-out vessel but no appropriate object caught her eye. She considered filling her bonnet but figured the water would drain out before she could make it back to him. So she settled on her ankle boots, figuring he was too thirsty to be picky. Sure enough, when she handed him two shoefuls of water, he accepted them gratefully and even seemed to acknowledge her resourcefulness with an approving nod.

It was less embarrassing being next to him in the gathering darkness, so she knelt beside him and noted that he didn’t gulp the water down. Rather he restrained himself to take it in measured sips. When he paused at some length, she asked, “Can I go over the slope now?”

He took another spare sip, shuddered with relief. He cleared his throat, then uttered his first full sentence. “It’s best to go before the moon and stars come out.” His voice was deeper and more resonant than she had expected. She moved away from him, and he said, “Crawl, don’t walk.” When she was at the edge of their hiding place, he added, “Watch out for rattlesnakes.”

She squeaked in horror and got down on her hands and knees to crawl through the cover of the grasses and the shifting twilight. The afternoon’s wait had been unbearable, but this last crawl up and over the slope was excruciating. She was hoping against hope that when she judged herself close enough to the scene and lifted her head above the grasses, she would find that—

All was well.

Her heart leapt with joy. The spot where her family’s wagon had been was empty. Meaning that they, and most of the others, had had time to flee. Her joy turned to sorrow as she recognized the one who had not been so lucky.

She had been traveling with her family in a train of ten wagons. Only one was left at the site, broken beyond repair, and the Widower Reynolds lay facedown on the ground next to the wagon, an arrow in his back. She went over to the dead man, bit her lip to stifle her sob, then did what she had to do.

She crawled back down the slope to the shelter of the trees. She made her way over to the man-beast, who had not moved from his seated position, and announced, “I’ve brought you some trousers.”