Chapter Four

The soldier drifted in and out of a kaleidoscope of colors and vivid nightmares, his arms and legs hugging his body. Pain strangled his limbs, rendering him immobile. He opened one eye. The sun blazed overhead, and in the distance, a wolf bleated a lonely howl. Near the rock-hard ledge he inhabited, the cry of a raven screamed of doom and death. A musty, dank scent invaded his nostrils, beckoning him to seek shelter in the cave behind his battered body. An innate sense told him to weigh his options―remain on the crevice and succumb to night predators or attempt to roll into the cavernous shelter and fall prey to whatever dwelt in the unknown depths.

Damn if he could recall his name or how he became a victim to the unforgiving elements. With a wheeze, he commanded his fingers to explore the horrific pain in his chest. Warm, congealed blood surrounded a gaping wound between his collarbone and heart. He blew air through his mouth and braced for what he'd find when he explored the debilitating throb above his ear. Something had carved out a narrow furrow along his temporal bone. Another inch to the right and he wouldn't be worrying about night stalkers.

He closed his eyes and allowed the images to surface again. Maybe the visions held clues to what the hell had happened to him. Distorted faces, adorned in a bizarre palette of black and red receded and advanced. Savages, or perhaps a copper-skinned army sent by the devil. Maybe the lip of the cave was the entrance to Hell and whoever wanted him dead had succeeded in their goal.

Screams of wounded animals rang in his ears, or were the mournful cries another form of torment from Satan? No matter, he didn't have the strength to roll into the cave. If Hades wanted him, it would have to wrench him from the jaws of the beasts closing in below him. Resigned to his fate, he closed his eyes and welcomed oblivion.

* * *

Judd Ashbridge crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his eyes on the scene. Before him, the battlefield loomed. Him and his ma hid in the loft of the barn yesterday while the fight raged. They had no idea who fought but knew Indians were involved. Icy tentacles of fear pedaled through their veins from the bloodthirsty war cries. Ma told him when she collected water at the river the day before she saw pony tracks along the bank, shod ponies. Settlers in this rocky terrain shoed their horses.

'Listen, Judd,' she'd said, covering her ears, her voice a whisper. 'Do you hear the bugle? That's the army sounding retreat.' He didn't know retreat from reveille and knew nothing about the United States Army, other than they'd taken his pa several years ago to fight in a far-off place.

Judd slid from Maude's back and assessed the situation. A putrid stench filled his nostrils. Army mounts, their stomachs bloated, their fly-encrusted eyes glossed over in death, dotted the windswept plains. Where were their riders?

Maude balked when he yanked on the reins and urged her forward. The smell of her own kind dying had spooked her. "Come on, Maude. We're not going home until I find me some souvenirs."

Judd cupped a hand over his brow and attempted to determine from which direction the arrows had arced through the air. Feathered shafts emerged from the bellies of the horses, and several more hugged the earth. No way could he avoid the rank smell if he wanted those trophies. Clutching Maude's reins, he walked forward and collected as many shafts as he could hold in his free hand. The breeze kicked up, ruffling his muslin shirt and threatening to topple the wide brim hat from his head. Ahead, a string of rock-covered hills glistened under the sweltering sun.

"Maude, we're heading in the direction of those crests. Something tells me the natives fired on the army from up there. They might have left something behind."

The horse picked up her pace, apparently relieved to be heading away from the rank stink. Judd scrambled onto a narrow ledge and from the corner of his eye spied a dark blue object.

Assuming a squat, he narrowed his eyes and focused on the fabric twisted into a ball. Fearful he'd find a dead Injun, he crawled forth at a snail's pace. It wasn't likely whoever was left behind would be a red man. They didn't leave their dead or wounded on the battlefield. Craning his neck for a better look at the person's face, he realized it was a white man. He'd drawn his legs up to his chest and his arms were crossed over his torso. When he poked him with an arrow shaft, the man groaned. For a brief moment, feverish eyes opened and he tried to focus on his tormenter. Incoherent jumble spewed from his blood-encrusted lips.

"Hold on, Mister, I'll be back."

Judd leaped from the crevice, scrambled down the crest and mounted. After mounting Maude, he rode for home, his intent to gallop for home, his intent to search for more war souvenirs forgotten.

* * *

Judd slid from Maude's back in one motion and raced toward his mother. "Ma! Ma!"

Digging for potatoes, her head came up. "'Bout time you get back. I sure could use your help in the garden."

"There's one still out there, Ma."

"What? Out where?"

"Remember all that fighting we heard yesterday? I found the battlefield. It was the Injuns and the army all right, and they left a white man behind."

"I thought I told you this morning to stay away from that area for a day or two." She heaved a sigh. "Don't know what I'm gonna do with you, Judd. If your Pa were here—"

"Well he ain't and might never be again, but . . .."

She gave him a sharp look. "Don't you ever say that again, do you hear me? Your pa's coming back one day, you'll see."

Head down, Judd kicked at the dirt. "I'm sorry Ma, just seems like he's been gone so long, I can't remember what he looks like anymore."

Tears filled her eyes. "I know. I have trouble recalling his face sometimes too."

He lifted his chin, his voice anxious. "Did you hear what I said? I found a man in a cave out there."

"Best to leave the dead be, son. I know it's an awful thing to see at your age, but I got more than I can deal with right here."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you; he ain't dead."

"I have little time for your stories and adventures today, Judd. Now get on over there and start picking those beans."

"I poked him with an arrow and he opened his eyes."

Maggie stared at him. Something in his voice told her this wasn't one of his far-fetched stories. She thought of her husband, Cyrus, lying in a field of red clay, wounded and near death. She'd want some kind stranger to help him, nurse him back to health and send him home to them. If what Judd said was true, she couldn't turn from it now. She might as well hitch Maude to the wagon and get it over with.

The stubborn mare wasn't happy about returning to the battlefield. She balked several times, and finally came to a dead halt near the adobe cliff Judd led them to.

"Look up, Ma. Can you see that flash of blue on the crevice? He's still there, just like I told ya."

Maggie climbed the small butte with Judd close behind. Encased by solid rock on three sides, a tapered ledge jutted from the cave. And Judd was right. A man lay curled into a ball on that lip. She advanced on the prone body then knelt down, scanning his bloody clothing and the rusty stains on his hands and face. "He's pretty bad off, Judd." Chewing on her lower lip, she looked out from the crevice, pondering how to get him down.

"What are we gonna do, Ma?"

"I'm thinking on it, son." Quiet moments passed. "Get the rope in the back of the wagon and walk Maude as close to the overhand as possible, right under it."

"We gonna lower him down into the wagon?"

"That's what I'm thinking. Hurry now, we have to get him down to have a good look at those wounds. Oh, and Judd, put a heavy rock over Maude's reins so she can't bolt while we're lowering him down."

Judd returned moments later with the rope. Maggie fastened it around the soldier's torso, avoiding his wound, and then tied it in a firm knot. "You'll have to help me now as we lower him down . . . real slow." She smiled at her son. "Times like this, I'm happy you're big for your age."

One slow inch at a time, Maggie and Judd worked to lower the wounded man off the crevice and into the buckboard below. Once his feet hit the blanket in back, Maggie told Judd to race down and hang on to him until she made it down off the ledge. Inaudible groans and moans fell from the man's lips as they laid him down on the blanket.

Maggie climbed into the seat and slapped the reins against Maude's hunches. "Try to keep him still until we get home, Judd."

A sigh of relief escaped when she spied the black chimney smoke swirling skyward above the homestead. The Sioux had passed by their abode twice in the last several weeks, and even stopped once asking for food. She didn't want any trouble with the natives and gladly shared what little they could spare. Although the Indians had been armed to the teeth and painted for war, Judd had stood beside her on the porch, his pa's rifle pointed at the leader's chest. If they had planned to do them harm, Judd's courage must have persuaded them against it. By the time they rode out, the leader had nodded at Judd with admiration in his eyes.

But yesterday, howitzers had roared and volleys of gunfire had echoed across the prairie. She and Judd had taken shelter in the corn crib for hours, long after the battle had ended. This morning, she tried to convince Judd to stay close to home, and now the result of his disobedience was sprawled out in the back of the buckboard almost bled to death.

Maude came to a halt in front of the house. Now the arduous task of getting him from the wagon to the house loomed before them. Judd took one end of the blanket and she the other. By the time they laid him on her bed, her forehead was dripping sweat, her back cramped with pain. During the move, his wound had opened. Blood soaked his dark blue shirt and ran in crimson streams over his fingers.

On the far side of the bed, Judd looked down on him. "He'll live, right, Ma?"

Maggie pulled her gaze from the soldier and smiled. "I won't know until I get a better look." She tore the shirt from his body. "The head wound's not so bad but this one," her fingers lingered over the torn flesh on his chest, "is worrisome."

"But, Ma, you have to save him."

"I'll do my best." She gave a hopeless shake of her head and hoped Judd didn't see it. "Go on now, son; bring the mad stone poultice from the well, clean rags and the kettle of hot water simmering on the stove. Oh, and grab a couple of long hairs from Maude's tail before you put her in the lean-to."

Judd scurried from the room and she leaned down to get a better look at the chest wounds. A bullet had grazed his temple on the left, carving out a shallow ridge in his blue-black hair. The angry two-inch, gaping hole under his collarbone concerned her more. Fragments of blue cotton and other unnamed matter were embedded in the tissue around the wound.

Judd bounded into the room with the items she'd asked for. He set the kettle of water down on the night table with the clean rags beside it, and handed her the stiff, black hairs from Maude's tail.

"I'll need my metal tweezers and the bone needle from my sewing basket near the hearth."

He nodded before rushing from the room again.

"And, Judd," she called out to him, "bring the whiskey."

Again, he returned with the items she'd requested, his breaths coming fast, his cheeks flushed. When he handed her the bone needle, a wave of nostalgia washed over her. It had been in her family for decades. She had carried it to Dakota Territory in her herbal knapsack all the way from Philadelphia. Judd nudged her with the bottle of whiskey. She took a swig and then poured a small amount over the needle.

Judd grimaced. "Where do you want this smelly poultice?"

"Set on the bed beside him."

"How do you know it will work?"

"I just know. I've used that remedy for years to heal wounds and fight infections, and it's the best chance he has."

"But, Ma . . .."

"Trust me, son. A large hairball taken from the cow after slaughter and soaked in milk for days can kill anything. I suppose it's a combination of the stomach acid and sour milk that kills the germs."

Alter cleaning the wound with a warm, wet cloth she poured a small amount of whiskey over it; the biting antiseptic causing the soldier's arms to flail about the bed. She shuddered and imagined what kind of pain he'd feel when she dug for the bullet.

"You'll have to hold him down, Judd. Can you do that?"

He nodded, climbed onto the bed above his head and put his weight onto the man's shoulders. With tweezers in hand, Maggie drew a deep breath and plucked the material, pieces of metal and dirt from the wound. She was right; the bullet had not passed through but remained embedded in the fleshy part of his chest several inches above his heart.

Her hands trembled. "Ye gads and little fishes! Please, Lord, still my trembling hands."

"You can do it, Ma."

Her son's confidence bolstered her courage. She glanced at him once or twice between attempts at removing the bullet. His eyes remained fixed on the soldier's face as the man thrashed and groaned. The blue coat was younger than her Cyrus, but not too young to be married or have children.

A triumphant cry broke the still air. She held the tweezers in the air, the spent shot clasped tight between the ends. The wound oozed bright, red blood. Maggie threaded the needle with one of Maude's tail hairs, closed the wound and tied a knot when she'd finished. The soldier stilled and his breaths came in shallow, labored gasps.

"Is he dying, Ma?"

"No, Judd, he passed out again, praise the Almighty."

"Will he live?"

"I reckon, or else he'd have died back there on that crevice if that's what the Lord had in mind for him." She shook her head. "No, I think he'll live to see his grandchildren one day if we can stop an infection from kicking in with that poultice. Hand it to me now, son."

She covered the wound with light gauze before placing the mad stone remedy over the wound. After patting it down, she secured it with long, cotton strips wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm.

"You can let go of him now." She pulled the blanket up to his chin. "He needs rest; we've done our best for the stranger."