Journey of Honor A love story (15 page)

Trace had known there was an Indian following them. He hadn’t mentioned it to her, but it wasn’t long before she figured it out. They didn’t really openly discuss it, but they both began to be more diligent and careful. Dog was great about keeping them informed when the dark skinned prowler was around, and so far he didn’t appear to be up to anything too sinister, but Trace knew enough about Indians to know that they were in for trouble. Trace assumed the brave was simply biding his time, waiting for a chance to steal their stock or goods from the wagon. He didn’t realize that it was his wife he was after.

He figured that out fast one morning when Giselle was at the nearby stream washing her face while Trace hooked up the mules in the half light before dawn. Dog began to growl and, as Trace turned to investigate, he heard Giselle start to scream. She only got a split second of sound out before it was cut off abruptly and Trace and Dog both ran for the creek bank.

The Indian had her by the waist and his other hand was over her mouth as he attempted to drag her onto his horse with him. He’d have had her and been long gone except for the fact that Giselle was fighting him like a wildcat. Just as Trace reached the top of the bank, she must have bitten him, because the Indian winced and let go of her mouth, switched hands at her waist, and then hit her across the face with a closed fist.

The blow knocked her head back, but rather than settle her down, it only served to make her madder and she screamed again. This time it was in anger instead of fear, and she began to fight even harder. Trace could hear her cussing the brave out in her native Dutch as she fought with him. Dog tore into the Indian’s horse and then latched onto the brave’s foot as Trace reached them.

The Indian let go of Giselle to pull a knife on Trace as he kicked at the dog on the other side. Giselle lost her footing in the rocks when he let go so suddenly, and she almost fell under the horse’s hooves. Instantaneously, Trace reached for her, throwing her away from the horse as he deftly deflected the brave’s knife blade and pulled the man from the horse’s back.

In a series of quick moves that felt like a death dance, Trace evaded the blade and moved further from Giselle before pulling his own knife from his boot. He heard Giselle gasp, and he glanced at her as the Indian brushed by him with his knife. He was grateful that she seemed to understand that he needed her to get back, and that Dog knew to stay with her as Trace focused once again on the desperate warrior in front of him.

Trace was taller and bigger and had the greater reach by far. That, coupled with the fact that he was more skilled with his blade, made for a short-lived fight. Literally within seconds, he had the Indian on his face with a knee in his back. The long, greasy, black hair tied with feathers was in his fist with the knife poised above the brave’s brow. Trace struggled to control his anger. Normally slow to rile, seeing Giselle fighting for her life with this savage had made his blood boil instantly. A grown man treating a sweet, young woman like this made him furious! He almost wanted to run him through!

When he could finally speak without wanting to end it all right here and now, he told the brave angrily that he was a medicine man and that it would offend the Great Spirit for a medicine man to kill a warrior. He added that it would be the worst kind of bad medicine for the Indian to harm either Trace or Giselle, and that he was to leave them alone or Trace would call on the spirits to harm him. Still furious, the words literally ground out and Trace found it almost hard to speak the dialect.

When the Indian didn’t respond, Trace shook him and let the knife draw a drop of blood. Still the brave didn’t react, and Trace wondered if he was speaking the wrong language and tried a different dialect. Finally, the brave answered back in the first dialect in a voice full of anger, and Trace’s fury raged through his veins again. He threw the Indian aside and gestured to Giselle and roared, “She is mine! Don’t you dare come near her again! If you ever come back, I’ll offend the Great Spirit and kill you anyway!” He waved the long bladed Bowie knife and kicked the brave soundly. “Get out of here before I change my mind!”

With a face devoid of expression, the Indian stood up, glanced at Giselle, and got on his horse and galloped away. Trace stood still for a moment, still battling his fury, trying to calm down enough that he wouldn’t frighten Giselle any further when he went to her. He turned to her and searched her face for a moment before wrapping her in a hug. In a voice that was infinitelygentle, he asked, “Are you okay?”

She nodded against him and he continued, “I’m sorry I was so rough with you. I was afraid you were going to get stepped on.” He pulled back from her and gently touched her face where the Indian had struck her. Her cheek was starting to swell and blood was crusting on the side of her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Elle. I should have been more careful. I didn’t realize it was you he was after. I thought he would try to steal the mules, not you.” He wrapped his arms back around her and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

She started to cry and he hugged her tighter, wishing he could undo the last ten minutes of her life. This probably brought back all the memories of the night she had been attacked by the mob. After several minutes of holding her tight and letting her cry, he took her hand and led her back to the wagon seat. They were loaded and ready to go and he helped her up onto the seat.

Climbing up beside her, he pulled her tight against him with one arm and snapped the reins to the mules with the other. “Let’s get out of here, Elley. Let’s get headed for home. Hopefully, we’ll never see him again.”

She sat tight against him for so long that his arm began to ache and she finally fell asleep there against him. She’d cried long enough that, even in her sleep, she breathed with little sobs from time to time. He was so sorry for her fear, but he had to smile when he thought back to the way she had fought the Indian. It wasn’t fear that she had been feeling for a minute there. She had been telling that brave off with pure unadulterated anger at one point. And fighting! She probably would have been just fine on her own with him when she was so mad. It was only after everything was over that she had started to cry.

The thought of her at the hands of Filson and more like him made him want to be sick. What in the world possessed the hearts of men that they could harm a beautiful, sweet, young woman? He shook his head and pulled her tighter to his side. If he had known what had gone on, he would never have hesitated to shoot Filson. He still regretted that he hadn’t done it and that he’d made her feel like she needed to.

He’d thought about it at length and realized she had done it for him and the others in the train. If she had been going to do it to protect herself, she would have done it weeks and months earlier. No, she had done it to protect the others. He put a hand to her soft, blonde hair. She was an incredible woman.

*****

Trace had told Giselle that he hoped they never saw the Indian again, but it didn’t work out that way. The very next afternoon as they topped a ridge that dropped down into a thickly wooded stream bottom, they could hear something going on down in the brush near the creek. There was crashing around and growling and finally Trace heard what he knew was the unmistakable sound of a bear roaring and huffing. A couple of times they could hear the sound of a human voice and both bear and human sounds made the stock nervous.

Trace turned back around and pulled the wagon far enough away that the mules and cow and calf settled down, and then he tied the reins up and climbed down from the wagon seat with his rifle in hand. He turned to Giselle. “I’m going to see what’s going on. I’m probably too late, but I have to know. Stay here with Dog. I’ll be right back.”

Twice before, he’d heard that sound of a bear, and both times he’d ended up with a severely mauled patient on his hands. The first one lived, although he would be hopelessly scarred for life. The second one didn’t.

Carefully, Trace picked his way down through the trees until he could see what was going on below him. What he found made him glad that the sight of blood didn’t bother him too much. It was the same Indian who had tried to steal Giselle the day before. He’d obviously come out on the worst end of an attack by a bear. The bear was still there, huffing and growling around, although it was dragging one hind leg and bleeding out of its nose and mouth. The Indian lay there in a gory pile, and at first Trace thought he was dead—until he saw the brave move to curl up into a ball when the bear approached him again.

When Trace realized the man was still alive, he raised his rifle and shot the wounded bear. On approaching the bear, he shot it one more time, just to be sure, and then he carefully approached the Indian. Somehow, the man was still conscious even though he was horribly chewed up. When Trace moved closer, he struggled to get away from him.

Trace looked all around and wondered where the man’s horse was. He needed a way to carry the man up out of the creek bottom without injuring him further. Trace continued to look around and finally decided to carry the wounded man up the stream nearer to the ford to try to help him. Whether or not he could be saved remained to be seen, but Trace was going to give it his darndest. The physician in him would let him do no less.

Wondering how he was going to get the guy to let him work on him without a fight, Trace approached him again and was almost relieved to realize that the man was now unconscious. He carefully picked him up and carried him down to the stream crossing and laid him out beside it and then ran back up to Giselle and the wagon to bring them down as well.

Trace wasn’t sure how to tell Giselle that he was going to try to save the man who had attempted to abduct her, but he knew he couldn’t just let him die without trying. He hoped she’d somehow understand. As it happened, she didn’t even realize it was the same Indian until Trace had him somewhat put back together.

On getting the wagon down, Trace went to work immediately cleaning the man up while Giselle started to build a fire and heat water without even being asked. The poor brave had been all but scalped by the bear, and the skin of his head hung in ragged strips of bloody, matted hair. His thigh was also torn up where the bear had apparently bitten him deeply and then dragged him or shaken him.

On top of that, he had cuts and puncture wounds in a myriad of other places, and it took Trace more than three hours to stitch him and put him back together as much as he could. He had to cut the man’s hair off—and a good portion of the skin on his head as well—to try to save him. When Trace was finally finished, the Indian looked almost more frightening than when he’d started. With a tired sigh, Trace covered the wound on the Indian’s thigh with the final bandage. Honestly, if this man lived, it would be surprising. He was incredibly torn up and wounds like this tended to fester horribly.

It was late afternoon when he finally washed his hands again and looked up and met Giselle’s eyes. She had helped him all the way through the surgery without faltering, and he was unbelievably proud of her—both for how competent a helper she was and for continuing to help even when she figured out that it was the same Indian. She began to clean up and Trace said, “We’ll need to move on before we camp. The dead bear and all the blood will attract other predators, so we’ll move on up the trail before stopping.”

She nodded at him and he went and skinned the bear. There was no sense in wasting the hide, even though as he skinned it he found that the Indian had put up quite a fight. There were several punctures and bullet holes in the hide. Trace was sure the bear would have eventually died of the wounds.

On an impulse, Trace also saved its teeth and claws. He was going to assume that his patient would make it and he would want these sometime. Trace cut out as much of the bear meat as he thought they could use before it spoiled and took it back to the wagon. He wasn’t sure where to put the Indian. Giselle had been wonderful about helping to save his life, but Trace didn’t want to traumatize her any more than was necessary. Finally, he rigged up a travois, attached it to the back of the wagon with two dead trees and a sheet of canvas, then gently laid the still unconscious man on it, and they pulled out.

It was full dark when they finally stopped for the night a few miles up the trail, next to the same creek where he’d rescued the Indian. They built a cook fire and started dinner. After being so roughly handled the day before, Giselle had started to hemorrhage again. When she automatically started helping, Trace thanked her kindly—and then just as kindly, but firmly, sent her to lie down in the back of the wagon. She hardly even argued, and he knew that she was tired and worried as well.

He cooked and did the camp chores and tended to his patient. When he finally made it to bed with her, he was tired, even though they hadn’t traveled all that far that day. He lay down next to her and pulled her close to him. She stirred in her sleep and patted his hand gently and said something in Dutch before she rolled close to him and settled back. He had no idea what she’d just said, but somehow he knew that she’d just told him she was proud of him. It was the tone of her voice and the way she’d touched him, and it made him even more grateful to have her around. She always made him feel good about himself.

Twice in the night he got up to check on the Indian, and both times he wondered if they would find him still among the living when morning came. He was grievously wounded and Trace wished for the power that Josiah had blessed Giselle with. It had been so much stronger than his medical skills that day.

As he lay there beside her, waiting to get back to sleep, he thought about that priesthood and her church. Since they had been traveling, he hadn’t had a chance to read any more of the journal and he found he truly missed it. Sometimes while he drove, she read a book that he had come to realize was the Book of Mormon. He didn’t know much about it except that some people referred to it as the Mormon Bible, but she seemed to cherish it and he wished sometimes that she would read it aloud to him. He would have already asked her except that he knew it would tire her.