Trail of the Heart

Throbbing head…can’t move…on horseback… Without opening her eyes, consciousness returning, Sallie took stock of her present situation. Lying across the back of a horse with her head dangling on one side and legs on the other, the pressure on her mid section was extremely uncomfortable. She willed to keep her body limp, until she could more fully regain her senses. She tried to think back…to remember what had happened.

She had been on her way back to the wagons anxiously peering around her after hearing that sound in the thicket. Suddenly, soundlessly from behind her, out of nowhere it seemed, a hand had clamped over her mouth and an arm tightly surrounded her waist. She had tried to twist her head and had clawed with the nails of her free hand first at the hand over her mouth, and then had tried to reach the face of her captor to no avail. Sallie tried kicking as she was lifted and carried through the thicket. She made contact at least several times, but the only reaction was an even tighter grip until she could hardly breathe. When her captor tried to throw her onto a waiting pony, she had struggled and managed to get both hands free. It was then she was hit with something. That was the last she remembered.

With head nodding slightly in rhythm to the horse’s gait, the captor couldn’t see she opened one eye just a tiny slit to take in her situation. Buckskin clad leg…moccasin…the end of a long knife (apparently tucked somewhere above her range of vision in a waist band)…horse’s dun colored shoulder…long stemmed prairie grass below muffling the sound of the horse’s steps… Back to the knife… if she could somehow… They seemed to be alone. She tried to think. One of the Indians the other night was ridding a dun colored horse when he rode into camp. It was the older one with the gray streaking his raven hair, the one that had kept staring at her. She didn’t dare to twist to look at his face, and thus, let her captor know she was conscious. He hadn’t killed her outright. Why? The children, had they made it back to the wagons and safety?

With one quick movement, Sallie pulled the knife from the Indian’s belt and plunged it into his upper thigh. Hanging from the horse as she was, she couldn’t reach higher with any force. At the same instant, she managed to push herself forward and to tumble headfirst from the horse’s back.

When next Garrett paused to peer over the rise, he was surprised at what he saw. Not only was he closer than he had anticipated, but the Indian had halted and the bundle, which turned out to be the woman, was giving him a really hard time. With the Indian distracted, trying to get her under control, this might be his time to move. He gave the horizon a quick scan for any unwanted company. Not seeing anything moving, he turned back to his horse and vaulted into the saddle urging the animal over the crest of the hill and toward the struggle below.

When she hit the ground, Sallie rolled away from the horse. The Indian leaped from his horse after her, the knife still protruding from his thigh with a stream of blood flowing from the wound and dripping down his dark skinned leg. Even with the injury, he was very quick. Sallie sprang to her feet. Instead of trying to run, as he expected, she rushed forward and kicked him as hard as she could in his good leg. Twisting in an attempt to avoid his grasp, she lost her balance and fell. As the Indian bent over to grab her arm, Sallie rolled away from him and as she did she came into contact with a thick piece of broken limb from one of the nearby cottonwoods. Her hand quickly closed around it. Then grasping it with both hands, she began swinging with all her might. The first blow hit his head as he was bent over reaching for her, the next his shoulder as she managed to regain her footing. She continued striking him … again and again. She kicked him hard again this time in the injured leg, and he lost his balance. He tumbled onto the ground and rolled under the belly of his horse to the other side in an attempt to get away from her. She ran around the shying horse with the club raised for another strike. Blood was seeping from the place she had hit his head. The frightened horse swung around striking out with a rear hoof, which probably saved the Indian from another blow as she dodged the animal. The Indian groaned and getting up attempted to straighten to an upright position with his horse between them. She saw a startled look come into his eyes as he seemed to focus on something behind her. She didn’t dare take her eyes from him, but stood crouched ready to do more damage with the upraised club, which was actually somewhat shorter now, as a piece of it had broken away during one of the blows.

A chill went through her as a voice behind her said something in a language she did not understand. The Indian responded with something in his own tongue and made a kind of sweeping or pushing away motion with one of his hands. She heard a soft chuckle behind her. Finally, daring to turn her head slightly, she beheld a buckskin-clad man mounted on a grulla colored mustang with a Sharps rifle almost casually aimed in the Indian’s direction. He said something to which the Indian grunted. With a grimace, the Indian pulled the knife from his thigh. Then, limping, the Indian approached his horse and somewhat clumsily mounted. Turning toward the man on the grulla, the Indian said something else to which the other man responded. Then the Indian urged his pony forward and began to ride away.

As the Indian departed, Sallie turned to study the man in buckskin. Upon closer scrutiny of her rescuer, she wondered if she was truly rescued or in greater danger. This man certainly looked tough. He was lean and rangy like his mustang. He had the carriage and the appearance of a man not to be taken lightly. There was several days’ growth of beard on his face with a long shaggy iron-gray mustache drooping from his upper lip. Dark piercing eyes, now focused on the departing Indian, peered out beneath heavy brows. Were he cleaned up, she decided he might be somewhat handsome in a rugged sort of way. The man on the grulla mustang scanned the horizon, slowly lowered his rifle and tucked it into a scabbard on the side of his saddle.

She took a deep breath and placing her hands on her hips, she demanded, “What did he say?” Sallie hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

He shifted his piercing gaze to her, taking in her somewhat disheveled appearance. In the struggle, some of her light brown hair with its streaks of gray had escaped the confines of the bun at the base of her neck. Her dress had a tear down one arm and another on the skirt. The dark patterned material was smudged in places with dust and grim from her struggles. As he silently studied her from head to foot, she tried to hide how uncomfortable he made her feel.

Again, she demanded, “What did he say?”

He looked her directly in the eyes.

“Said you were too much trouble, and I was welcomed to you,” he drawled in a deep baritone voice.

As he spoke he rested both hands on his saddle horn and leaned slightly forward over the neck of his horse. She thought she detected a somewhat amused light in his eyes, and that sparked her anger in spite of her situation.

“There surely was more to the conversation than that,” she persisted.

“Ah, maybe a word or two….”

Sliding his left foot out of the stirrup, he offered his hand to pull her up with him on his horse.

Instead, she took a backward step, “I’m in no hurry to climb on a horse with another strange man. Who are you?”

Surprised by that response, he leaned back in his saddle and stroked a hand across the whiskers on his chin as he studied her.