Page 15 of Shoshone Sun

Peter took a deep breath and tore a strip of cloth off of his own shirt. He tied it tightly above the man’s wound to slow the bleeding, but he knew it wasn’t enough. The man needed more help than that, but help was far away.

“Should we fetch Paul?” Jane asked, her voice tight with fear.

Peter glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. He knew his uncle would come if called, but it would take time to ride to his homestead to summon him and more time for him to ride back here. They didn’t have that much time. Peter knew he must do something quickly if the man was to have any chance of survival.

“No,” he said firmly. “We have to do what we can as fast as we can. Jane, help me with this.”

“Where is Susan?” Jane asked, looking around the cabin.

“She ran into the bedroom. You know how terrified she is of Indians.”

“Yes, but this one can hardly hurt her. He’s unconscious! Should I go get her?”

“No. The two of us can handle this. Once we’ve done here, I’ll go reassure her,” Peter said.

Jane moved into action, gathering supplies. She set water to boil to cleanse the wound, and then, steady and focused, brought over clean rags, whiskey, a knife, pliers, thread, a needle, and bandages.

The brave stirred slightly, groaning. His face contorted in agony, and his breath came rapid and shallow. Despite his obvious pain, Peter sensed a fierce determination within him. This was not a man who would give up easily, not even in the face of death.

Peter worked swiftly, but cautiously. First, he cut away the man’s tunic. Then he manipulated the arrow, to see how deep the arrowhead had penetrated.

He sighed with relief. “The arrowhead isn’t too deep. The man’s rib stopped it going through to his lungs. As long as it wasn’t dipped in some kind of poison, he might stand a chance.”

“I pray to God that it wasn’t!” Jane said.

“You’ll need something for the pain,” Peter said and raised the man’s shoulders. “Drink this,” he ordered the wounded man as Jane carefully poured some liquor into his mouth. Seemingly realizing that these strangers were trying to help him, the man complied. After the man took several deep swallows, Jane set the bottle down on the cabin floor beside her. Then as Peter worked to carefully remove the arrow from the brave’s side, Jane knelt beside the makeshift bed, a damp cloth in her hands. Her initial shock gave way to the steady rhythm of necessity. Gently, she began wiping the man’s face, her fingers brushing away the dried blood and dirt.

With each stroke, his features became clearer—strong cheekbones, a firm jaw, the broad brow of someone used to hardship, yet with a softness in the curve of his lips, as though his face had once known laughter. His skin was sun-kissed, dark and smooth, and though the pain he was suffering marred his appearance, there was something undeniably handsome about him—something that tugged at Jane’s heart. She found herself lingering on his eyes, half-closed, the long black lashes fanning out in sharp contrast to the deep hollows beneath them.

The young man’s face, though foreign, felt strangely familiar to her—a ruggedness that matched the wild land around them. She blinked and drew in a sharp breath, realizing with a start that her hands had paused in their work, and her gaze had softened into something more than mere sympathy.What is this?she asked herself, her heart suddenly racing in a way she couldn’t explain. She quickly averted her eyes, shaking her head as if to dispel the sudden feeling that had risen within her—an inexplicable attraction to a man she had never met before, a man who was a stranger. But the feeling lingered, almost as touchable as the warmth of the fire flickering nearby.

Meanwhile, using knife and pliers, Peter dug the arrowhead out of the man’s rib and pulled it out of his body. Then he cleaned, disinfected, stitched, and bandaged the wound, finally covering the man with another blanket.

He rose to his feet. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “Please stay with him while I go and comfort Susan.”

Jane did not consider that a burdensome task.

Several hours later, when the injured man was resting peacefully, not having ever fully regained consciousness, things returned as close to normal as possible in the cabin. Susan was cooking their supper, and little Petey was crawling around his play area.

Outside, the wind had picked up, blowing the fresh snow across the yard in sheets. It would be a blizzard before nightfall. Peter prayed that the Blackfoot would not come looking for the Shoshone brave. Generally, the Indians stayed away from white settlers, knowing that any raids on settlers led to brutal retaliation by the troops stationed at Fort Laramie.

Peter had heard tales about the Blackfoot. Ten years earlier, they had routinely raided settlers’ homesteads, stealing goods, and killing whites. The soldiers from Fort Laramie had responded in force and put an end to that horrifying practice.

“I’ll go outside and keep watch. Just in case the Blackfoot return,” Peter said. He didn’t want to shoot anyone, but if he had to, he would. He looked to Jane. “Keep him warm. Keep him alive. I’ll take my rifle and guard the cabin.”

Susan’s gaze narrowed, her concern obvious. “Don’t do anything foolish, Peter,” she said, her voice filled with pleading.

Peter nodded, though he knew that sometimes there was no choice but to do what needed to be done, regardless of the cost.

He stepped through the cabin door into the biting cold of the late winter afternoon. His breath came out in clouds, mixing with the swirling snow. The cabin was now merely a shadow in the storm, and the only sound was the howling wind. He paused for a moment, feeling the weight of the rifle in his hands.

He surveyed the land with practiced eyes, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, and he tightened his grip on the rifle. If they came, he would protect his family, no matter what it cost him.

Inside, Jane kept vigil by the Shoshone brave’s side, her hand resting lightly on his forehead. His breath came slower and deeper now. He was holding on. She had seen men die before, both on the sea journey to America and on the wagon train ride here. She prayed that he would survive. She had never encountered a man like him before.

Susan stood nearby, her face pale, her hands trembling. She was courageous, but the horror of the situation was too much for her. “Do you think they’ll come looking for him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jane stared into her sister’s eyes. “I’m positive that they didn’t see where he went. They rode off into the forest. I’m sure they won’t come here looking for him. They almost always stay away from the settlers,” she said.

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