Holding on to Heaven (22 page)

Murky water swirled about him and pelted his face with a rank smell of whatever inhabited the river's depths. He had no way of gauging how long he'd floated downstream and he didn't care. With his strength sapped, he had his hands full hanging onto the branch. Weariness overtook him and he thought about how easy it would be to just let go—float away with the branches and debris washed from the banks. How he wanted to slip into nothingness right now, end the mind-numbing pain.

A woman's face clouded his incoherent wanderings. And the image of a boy. He focused on those visions with one thought in mind... perhaps they waited for him. The devil take him, he couldn't put names to the faces. Ah, but no matter, her beauty kept him alive and nothing else mattered.

Damn, he couldn't think. He clung to the log, thankful the red man could no longer follow him.

Chapter Thirteen

Twilight breached the horizon by the time Creed came within a mile of New Ulm. Ribbons of thick, black smoke rose in the distance alerting him to danger. Not that he needed a sign to know something was wrong. He sensed it ten miles back. Honed like finely crafted weapons, his gut instincts and an inner voice warned him when death loomed.

He dismounted and hid the dapple gray between two aisles of birch trees. Before leaving his mount, he slipped a kerchief over the long snout.
If
he returned, he didn't want to find the horse stolen. He might need the gray during a hasty retreat.

Until he knew what demonic happenstance had entered his life now, he'd be on foot, crawl if he had to. His pulse quickened and his heart launched into triple beats. Additional warnings of peril.

His thoughts wandered to his pre-war days¯before his body told him evil rode the wind. At times, he missed the unaffected innocence of his youth, but not now. He welcomed the ominous warnings.

After walking to a nearby pine, he rubbed his hands in the thick sap oozing from the trunk and smeared it on his face. His pale skin would stand out like a beacon under the full moon. Sitting on his haunches, he waited for darkness to blanket the land, his body a mass of raw nerves.

Pale moonbeams lit the path as he alternated between a crouch and a crawl for the last several rods. He came from behind the town and slipped between two buildings. Damn. Death tainted the air around him.

A male's voice, low and edgy, rang out. "Something moved between the buildings to the north."

Creed heard a rifle cock and hissed the words. "It's me, Creed Gatlin. Don't shoot."

Shadows shifted in the darkness. "Creed, what the hell are you doing out here?" Ferd's familiar voice. "You nearly got yourself shot."

Creed holstered his pistol. "What the hell is going on?"

The man clasped his hand. "How did you make it in with the Sioux on the warpath?"

"What?"

"They've been at it for several days, slaughtered hundreds of settlers along the river."

"Whoa! Slow down, man; I'm not following you."

"They attacked Fort Ridgely, the Indian agency, and now they're itching to take the town in the morning."

A surreal feeling found him. "My family?"

In the faint light, he saw the man's lip twitch. "Martha straggled in with Jack tonight. They've been hiding in the woods for two days, traveling at night to reach New Ulm. Worn out, bitten raw by mosquitoes, they're alive. Damn, I’m sorry, Creed."

Familiar nausea churned his stomach. "She walked from home?"

"She's quite the girl, carried that baby for five miles, survived on berries and water from the streams and never put him down. She's at The Dakotah with Belle and Emily. They happened to be in town when the redskins¯"

Creed didn't wait to hear the rest. He bounded into the building and found Martha and Jack huddled in a corner, bedraggled and gaunt. When he dropped to his knees in front of her, relief and anger hit him at the same time. "Martha, are you all right?"

Her brave resolve dissipated. "Pa's dead. Ma and Minnie too, I think." Sobs racked her small frame. "They came through the woods; that's what Jonathan Gray told Ma before he died. I thought we should hide in the cornfield, and Mr. and Mrs. Garrett and their two boys, Lewis and Ben, were with us. We were trapped, Creed. Every time we moved, they knew where we were. They shot up the cornfield!"

Belle and Emily cried into their hankies when he drew Martha into his arms and held her against his chest. "I'm here now; no harm will come to you." He looked at Jack asleep in Martha's arms. The toddler's face had swelled from insect bites.

When her sobs abated, Martha looked up at him. "Ma was shot in the hip, couldn't walk no more. She handed the baby to me, told me to run as fast as I could through the cornfield. 'Hide in the woods,' she said."

His heart sank.

"'Don't look back,' Ma said. 'Just keep running. You know the way to New Ulm. Go there and find your sisters.'" Her eyes glossed over. "Jack and I hid out in the woods at night. One time they were so close, I held my hand over his mouth so he couldn't cry out. He was blue, nearly blacked out by the time they passed." Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. "I thought we lost him too."

Her dark blue eyes bored into his. He recognized a flicker of relief and then naked fear. "They're coming here again, aren't they, Creed?"

"I don't know yet, Martha, but Ferd says help is coming from nearby towns."

"Ma said I'd see her again!" Hysterical now, she screamed. "She promised, Creed!"

He looked up at Belle, fighting the sea of emotions coursing through him. Anguish. Dread. Pain. "What about the Morse place?"

Belle shrugged.

"Where was Brand when the Indians attacked our homestead?"

Belle wiped the tears from her face with a used hankie. "Brand has been helping with the livestock at Full Circle, but he rode into town two days ago. He was here the first time we were attacked."

"Why am I getting the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"

Emily began to sob.

"Belle, spit it out."

"Otto and Ferd sent Brand on a rescue mission and he never returned." She said it so fast she had to draw a breath when finished. "He's dead."

Creed loosened the bandana around his neck. It felt like a hangman's noose tightening with every passing second, cutting off his airway. "Where's his body?"

"Lying in the woods outside of town," Emily sobbed. "There wasn't time to bring him in."

Creed didn't have time to grieve while the rest of his fragmented world crashed down on him. He couldn't hold the question back, yet terror struck him to the marrow.
What if she's dead along with the rest?
"Lauren?" He held his breath, waiting for the answer.

Emily lifted her tear-ravaged face. "The last time Brand saw her, she was alive. He wanted to ride back to the ranch, but Otto and Ferd talked him out of it, told him it would be suicide. And now…" A heart-wrenching sob overtook her. "He's gone too."

"What are you going to do, Creed?" Belle asked.

"Shit!" he said between clenched teeth.

"Creed, I recognize that look in your eye, see your jaw twitching. We can't lose you too now. Promise me you won't do anything foolish."

"I promise you this; I'm not sitting here while a band of cutthroats kill my family and... and the Morses."

Creed stayed with Martha until she fell asleep. When he rose from the floor, he turned to Belle. "No matter what happens out there in the morning, stay inside. Don't come out."

Belle nodded.

"I'll be back to check on you in a few hours and I'll bring you a pistol."

"I don't know how to shoot, Creed."

His voice softened. "If the Indians get in, don't let them take Martha and Jack alive."

"Oh!" She gasped. "I can't possibly... I won't do it."

"Belle," his voice rose an octave. "It falls to you now. You can't let them be taken captive. Promise me."

"I'll do it," Emily said, her eyes blank.

Creed embraced his sisters and then vanished like a specter in the night.

* * * *

At sunrise, Creed and the other lookouts from New Ulm watched the distant smoke curl over the treetops. Ferd and seventy-five men rode out to see if Fort Ridgely had come under attack. On the outskirts of New Ulm, a large column of Sioux fanned out behind the civilians and attacked. Creed watched through a long glass as Ferd and his men cut across the prairie with the Indians in close pursuit.

Agonizing hours passed and nothing but birds moved through Creed's binoculars. His heart fell when a short time later Little Crow and his braves appeared in his line of vision.

Positioned on a rooftop near the barricades, Creed watched the Indians stream out of the woods and form a long, curved line. "Magnificent," he said under his breath.

A select few wore decorated war bonnets. The honor was reserved for those who had shown courage in battle or had achieved leader status of the tribe. Creed had been around the Sioux long enough to know what their feathers signified. An eagle feather was a sign of bravery and strength. A red man had to earn the right to wear the feather by counting coup on the enemy. If he wore the feather pointed down, it meant not only had he counted coup, but had sustained a battle injury.

He focused his sights on an impressive mounted Indian, his long trailing war bonnet swaying back and forth in the soft breeze. Adorned with ermine tails and aqua and red beaded medallions, Creed didn't recognize the man's face. That could only mean one thing—he hailed from a distant tribe. He released a long breath. This wasn't a mere battle, but a huge war. The Indians had assembled warriors from far and near.

Splashed with brilliant colors and patterns of war paint, horse and rider blended until man became horse and horse, man. Some carried rifles, but they all held war clubs, hatchets, and knives in their hands. Brilliant shields protected their torsos. The front line was afoot, ready to spring into action on command from their leader.

A frantic voice from inside the barricades shouted, "Our best chance is to hit them head on, prevent them from overtaking the town."

The sun blinded Creed as the redskins rode forth. He looked at the men next to him. Swallowing their fear, they loaded their long-range rifles and hunkered down into position. Onward the redskins charged, fanning out into a long line, increasing their velocity as they sped forth. The hooves of their ponies pounded the earth, sending great clumps of dirt flying through the air.

The settlers opened fire, knocking many from their mounts, but that didn't stop their charge. For a brief moment, the white men seemed taken aback by the ear-piercing screams and quick-paced ponies. Ferd called out, reminded them of the stakes of battle, and they regained their composure. This would be a fight to the death.

The battle raged for hours, the inexperienced settlers battling with momentum and stubborn pride. Creed hunkered down on the rooftop. One by one, he shot the Indians from their mounts and lost track of how many he felled. The marauders gained the advantage after an hour, burning the outlying buildings as they advanced. Creed watched the battle unfold, sickened by the brutal carnage. When a group of sixty savages broke through the barricades, he jumped from the rooftop and entered the fray.

He fought savagely, the pent-up anger he’d harbored since Finn died erupting from some dark place inside him. The enemy fell like wheat stalks, dispatched by a madman with a giant scythe. They were no longer people to Creed, but a representation of all he’d lost. Once or twice, his back met the ground when an opponent knocked him off his feet, but he rebounded, intent on killing more. Kill them he did, fiercely, brutally, until every inch of his clothing and skin was soaked in blood.

The men fighting beside Creed held the town and turned the battle on its head. When the first cusp of the sun dropped from the horizon, the Indians retreated to the safety of the woods, venturing out on a crawl to collect their dead. Creed and the survivors burned the remaining buildings on the outskirts of town, destroying any cover for the red man when he returned in the morning.

Dead bodies littered the battlefield, red and white. The town claimed a bittersweet victory. They counted their dead and then huddled together like a pack of wolves, waiting for the next onslaught.

Creed braced himself for battle when the Indians reappeared the following morning. They fired harmless shots from a distance and withdrew again. A shortage of food and ammunition convinced the settlers to evacuate. They carried their dead to a makeshift grave behind the hotel, leaving little time for relatives to mourn the loss of sons and husbands. The survivors climbed aboard a caravan of wagons prepared to head for a town thirty miles away.

Ferd and Otto found Creed standing next to the wagon that held his brother and sisters. "Thirty-four dead and sixty wounded." Ferd shook his head. "We'll have to return later to bury them in the cemetery."

Creed thought of Brand lying dead in the woods. "I'm not going with you, Ferd. I'm headed for home and then Full Circle."

Otto threw his hands up. "Son, that's suicide! The Indians are lurking out there, hoping some foolish settler will do just that."

"I have no choice. Watch out for Martha and Jack. I'll send for them when this is over." Creed turned on his heels and sprinted out of town, heading in the direction of the gray.

Ferd called out to him. "I'll make sure they get to Mankato. Good luck, son, and watch your back!"

Creed cut through the woods with the agility of a panther. When he found the gray, he checked his weapons, mounted, and turned the horse south.

Toward home.

Toward Full Circle.

Toward her.

* * * *

A straight line of oaks ran parallel to the cornfield, north to south—a boundary for his father's land for as long as Creed could remember. He rode between them and the field now, his watchful eyes searching in all directions. The corn had left its milk stage in July and stood five feet high now. The dry and withered rows converged and made it difficult to differentiate one row from the other.