Sarah's Heart (8 page)

Wolf had just ridden
into town. Loud music and a woman’s shrill laughter drifted from inside the
saloon to the hitching post where he dismounted and secured his horse.He was
tempted to go inside for something to quench his thirst, but didn’t want to
borrow trouble.

 
Turning from the rail, he stepped up onto the
wooden walkway at the same time that another buckskin-clad figure burst through
the swinging doors and walked right into him.

“Ex…
excuse
me.” The man turned, his shocked gaze drifting over
Wolf.

Tension tightened
Wolf’s jaw; his hand slipped down his side, closer to the knife secured to his
leg.

The stranger’s
craggy face had softened with his smile. “Pardon me, sir.” He offered his hand.
“My name is Eli Simms. I didn’t mean to run ya down. Can I buy you a drink?”

Wolf had widened his
eyes at the unusual show of respect. As much as would’ve liked a shot of
whiskey to chase the trail dust, he’d shaken his head. There was no way he
wanted to hear the theory on redskins and firewater again. “No thanks. I have
some business to take care of, but I do appreciate the offer.”

Simms had taken off
his hat and wiped his sweaty brow.
“Gettin’ a mite warm
already.”
He plopped it back on his head, then cupped his chin. “Say,
you wouldn’t know anyone who might be interested in scoutin’ for a wagon train
would ya?”

“Where’s it
heading?”

“California. We’re leavin’ in the morning,
and the scout I hired never showed up.”

Wolf had pondered
the offer. He’d done some traveling and scouting for the army and knew his way
around. The route to California was pretty
much etched in the Oregon Trail by all the
wagons that headed west on a daily basis. Besides, he needed the money. “I
might be interested, if it’s worth my while.”

“I pay $100 at the
end of the trip, plus food along the way.”

There was something
about the man Wolf liked, and the job sounded like easy money. “Mr. Simms,
you’ve got yourself a scout. Like I said, I have some business at the bank. How
about I meet you in the morning?”

“That sounds fine
with me. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Wolf…people just
call me Wolf.” He expected a reaction but got a grin instead.

“Glad to have you
join
the group, Wolf. I’ll see you at sunup at the edge of
town.”That was the end of their conversation.

Scout lifted her
head and nickered, drawing Wolf’s attention back to present. He took a long
breath, wincing at the pain. If he’d made that appointment, he’d most likely be
dead. Although angry at the time at finding the bank closed in the middle of
the day, he was happy now. He’d ridden out to where the wagons gathered to let
Mr. Simms know about the delay—that he’d meet up with the train out on the trail.
Afterwards, he’d secured a room at the local boarding house, only because he’d
done some odd jobs there and knew the owner. Miss Maggie was a kind-hearted
woman who never turned him away. She was the main reason he had money to put
down on a piece of property.

 
The next morning he’d gone to the bank first
thing to find it still closed. He later learned that the owner’s wife had
passed, and the doors were closed out of respect for her. Another night at Miss
Maggie’s had detained Wolf further.

When the bank
finally opened, Wolf stepped up to the teller’s window and declared his
intention to purchase the available acreage just outside Independence. He plopped down enough money
for the initial down payment, pleased to know that what he’d earn from scouting
would pay the rest.

 
The memory of the self-righteous bank clerk
turned Wolf’s jaw rigid. Had the weasel not been protected by the bars on his
teller’s window, Wolf would have grabbed him by his starched collar and ground
the man’s spectacles into his face. Those painful words Wolf had heard his
whole life still rang in his head. “We don’t deal with breeds in our
establishment.”

Well, they did now.
It only took pulling his knife and holding it near his own hair for him to
convey a scalping to the scrawny clerk. Suddenly, the man became quite cordial,
although forced. A smile tugged at Wolf’s lips, picturing the terror etched on
that pious bastard’s face.

Gray Wolf pulled
himself into a sitting position, again wincing at the pain. He pressed his palm
to his wounded side again, checking for blood, but still there was none. A
glance at his dust-covered thighs brought a loud exhalation. His clothes were
gone. When the cool morning air had given over to building heat, he’d shed his
buckskin pants and shirt, favoring only his breechclout. He’d meant to carry
his discarded clothing in his parfleche, the beaded doeskin bag given by his
mother, but the enraged bull buffalo had sidetracked him. Damn! The clothes
could be replaced, but not his mother’s gift, not the last memento of a woman
he cherished.

This wasn’t how
things were supposed to play out. Mr. Simm’s had promised to provide all the
provisions Wolf needed along with his pay. All he had to do was show up for the
job. He met his end of the bargain, just a little late. Despite his
disappointment, a breath of relief pushed past his lips. If he’d been on time,
he wouldn’t be here worrying about having nothing to wear or eat. Half-breed
scouts found themselves shot at just as often as white men by marauding war parties.
The Pawnee tribe was the worst, and the uniquely feathered arrow shafts jutting
from the wagon bonnets of the ill-fated train proved it.

Cheating death
brought a smile to his face. Compared to the alternative, he’d suffer a little
hunger and bear the cold nights anytime. Wolf wasn’t ready to ‘walk the spirit
trail’, as his Sioux brothers would say.

He placed two
fingers in his mouth and whistled for Scout. The mare ceased grazing and
obediently trotted to her master. Standing on wobbly legs, Wolf grabbed a
handful of Scout’s mane for support, then sagging against the animal; he rested
his cheek on her bristly coat. “Good girl. Thank you for not leaving me.”

A quiet whinny was
his response.

Wolf gazed at the
position of the sun. Too much of the day had passed to tarry longer. If he
could get back to his campsite, there was plenty of water and berries. His side
hurt like hell, but he pulled himself astride Scout and nudged her gently with
his heels. He’d never reach Mini Ska—small water—if he didn’t get going. That
was the name he’d given the place he found as a child—a small outcropping of
rocks creating a perfect shelter along the banks of a creek. It had recently
become his home, and his meager belongings were stashed there, safe from view.
Unless someone searched along the bank, they’d be none the wiser. He had first
used the small cave-like dwelling after his vision quest. He was twelve years
old at the time, but remembered the ritual as if it were yesterday.

Sioux culture
demanded that when a boy was on the threshold of manhood, he leave all his
worldly possessions and family to commune with nature for four days and four
nights, seeking a vision and an adult name from the Great Spirit. At the time,
Gray Wolf was known by his ‘boy’s’ name, and spent time in a purification
ritual in the sweat lodge. Hot stones were heated and passed through the
entrance to have water poured over them to create steam. Wolf had sat naked in
the enveloping cloud, calling upon the spirits to guide him on his journey. After
the ceremony, the air inside filled with the refreshing smell of the piney
outdoors as sage was used to wipe him dry before he left on his quest.

Clad only as he was
now, the lad known then as Little Rabbit, traveled away from the camp,
promising to forgo food and drink during the sacred trial. Wolf’s chest swelled
with pride, remembering how he dug his vision pit atop a small hill, and prayed
day and night for courage and wisdom. From this communion came the image of the
animal—H’ota Sunktokeca—from which Gray Wolf took his Lakota name.

His stomach rumbled
with the same hunger as it had on the fourth day of his vision quest. It was
then, drained of emotion as well as energy, that he practically crawled to the
stream he knew was nearby. After gorging himself on berries and drinking until
his thirst was quenched, he crawled beneath the protection of the overhang and
slept until he was strong enough to go back home.

Home.
What he wouldn’t give to have one. He’d lost
track of how long he’d been camping at Mini Ska. The land purchase took every
cent he had, and the bank expected full payment within six months. What would
he do now
?The
money he gave the clerk was earnings
from repairs made to Miss Maggie’s place and helping out on a cattle drive. The
drover who gave him the job didn’t care that Wolf was dressed like an Indian,
and probably smelled like one, too. The man just wanted to get his animals to
market. The experience stirred Wolf’s passion to become his own trail boss,
running his own herd without a middleman.

A breath of
frustration blew past his lips. Once he got back to camp, he’d devise a plan to
raise the rest of money owed to the bank. Right now, he just wanted a drink and
a nap. Following the furrowed trail east, Wolf clutched his side, trying to find
a rhythm with each jarring step Scout took. At last, horse and rider
synchronized and the pain lessened considerably.

He had no idea how
far he’d ridden after the buffalo encounter, before lapsing into
unconsciousness, but following the wagon’s highway back toward the river would
get him where he needed to go. All he knew was that he was thirsty as hell and
it was getting hotter by the minute.

 
Something in the middle of the trail caught
his attention, but the sun’s heat waves bounced off the hard dirt and squiggled
their way skyward, blurring the scenery. He squinted, trying to determine what
it was, then noticed there was something else—jutting from the tall grass along
side the path. “Hmm, it looks like a boot, Scout.”

He’d seen stranger
things left behind by travelers; he laughed and patted Scout’s neck. “Lot a good one boot will do me.”

The mysterious item
in the road revealed itself as a carpetbag, and then just beyond, as the Pinto
plodded by, Wolf glanced down at what he considered discarded footwear. “Whoa,”
he yelled, forgetting his injury and leaping from the animal’s back. There was
a body attached to the boot. Wolf crouched beside the fallen figure, checking
for signs of life.

Chapter Eight

Wolf swept the
woman’s long blonde hair aside and felt her neck, checking for a heartbeat. He
chewed his bottom lip, repositioned two fingers and pressed deeper into her
flesh. The action struck an eerily familiar cord, almost like someone had done
the same to him recently. He brushed the notion aside and prayed for a sign of
life. He found it—a faint thudding against his fingertips. She was alive, but
barely.

His gaze raked up
and down her body, searching for obvious signs of injury. There was no blood,
at least none visible, but his eyes widened. Canteens! There were two lying at
her side, He licked his parched lips and carefully lifted her head, slipping
the leather strap of one container over it. She felt limp as a rag in his arms,
and looked beautiful, too. His gaze stalled on her creamy complexion and
perfectly shaped features… until her small moan slapped his senses back.

As he laid her back
down, he noticed the rawhide tied around her leg. There could be no other
reason than snakebite. His thirst forgotten, he responded to his quickening
heart and inched down the length of her body, giving a futile yank at her pant
leg. It was no use. The material wouldn’t budge past the apparent swelling.

 
Wolf reached for his knife and quickly sliced
the side seam of her denims, freeing her leg from its encasement. Her calf
abnormally bulged but he saw no bite marks. Rolling her, he scanned the
backside. Two angry, red puncture marks showed where the snake had injected
deadly venom, something Wolf had seen many times before. He couldn’t tell when
this bite occurred, and it was important to draw the poison from the body as
soon as possible. His heart pounded like Lakota drums.

With no time to
waste, he rushed to her belongings, still in the middle of the trail, and
carried them back to where she lay. Hunkering next to her, he pulled a shirt
from her bag and spread it beneath her head, then rolled her over to tend to
her wound. With his knife, he cut an ‘x’ directly over the snakebite, causing
the swollen pressure to erupt into a river of blood running down her skin and
soaking the hem of the material beneath her. He used the sleeve to wipe away
the excess, and then placed his lips against her calf, sucking with all his
might to pull the toxins from her. The gush of thick, warm liquid inside his
mouth made his stomach roil, and he turned his head and spit several times.
Opening the canteen, he took a long pull of water, swished it around and spit
again. A second draw from the hide-covered tin quenched his thirst.

Wolf clawed away a
small patch of grass, exposing the earth beneath. He poured just enough
precious water on the ground to create a paste, screwed the cap back on the
container, and using his fingertips, spread the muddy concoction over the
bite—where his lips had been only moments ago.