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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: Preacher's Journey
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SIXTEEN
Corn Man was not a proper name for a Sahnish warrior, or at least so the warrior known by that name had always believed. But though the Sahnish could be warlike when called upon to do so, they also took great pride in the skill with which they tilled the land and coaxed crops from it. They grew more corn than anything else. It was a staple of their diet, and they also traded it to other tribes for meat and buffalo robes. Corn Man was very good at the growing of corn, and so that name had been bestowed upon him. In a way it was a source of pride, since it connected him directly to Mother Corn, the Great Spirit who ruled the earth and was second only to Nishanu Natchitak, the Chief Above. In times of peace he had not minded being called Corn Man. His hope was that one day he would take the place of Badger's Den as the tribe's medicine man and would be entrusted with the care of the sacred bundle.
That day would be long in the future, though, and when it was time to take up arms and exact vengeance on those who had harmed the Sahnish, then it was better to be called Swift Arrow or Runs Far or some more fitting name for a warrior. Not
Corn Man
. . .
Still, it looked as if he would be the first to spill the blood of the whites. There stood one of them now, gaping at him. A young one, to be sure, but still one of the white interlopers in the land of the Sahnish. The boy had emerged from a crude shelter as Corn Man watched, then gone over to a tree to make his morning water. That came to an abrupt end as terror cut off the stream in mid-splash.
Corn Man lifted his tomahawk and bounded toward the fear-frozen youth.
A shrill scream cut through the cold air. It came not from the boy but from the shelter, where a young girl had just stuck her head out from behind the pine boughs.
Corn Man stopped, unsure what to do. The girl scrambled out from the shelter, still screaming, followed by a smaller boy, who also cried out in fear. The noise would bring the other members of the scouting party Swift Arrow had sent out before dawn that morning, and unless he acted quickly, Corn Man would be denied the honor of killing all three of these white children by himself. He snarled and swung back toward the oldest one....
Who had stooped and picked up a branch from the ground, and now he threw it as hard as he could, right at Corn Man's face. The short but heavy piece of wood flew straight and true and smashed across Corn Man's nose. Tears of pain sprang into his eyes, blinding him. He stumbled and almost fell, but caught his balance.
Any hesitation he might have felt at killing children was now gone. They were white, they had caused him pain, and they deserved to die.
“Run!” the boy shouted. “Run for your lives!”
Corn Man did not understand the words, but through the tears in his eyes, he saw the young ones flee. The oldest boy caught hold of the girl's hand, and then she used her other hand to grab the younger boy. Together they ran away from Corn Man.
He gave chase, vowing that they would not get away from him. Perhaps he would keep the two younger ones alive, so that Swift Arrow could decide what to do with them.
But the boy who had struck him, that one would die, and before the sun rose much higher in the sky. This Corn Man vowed.
 
 
Preacher had called a halt a couple of hours before dawn. The moon had set, making it more difficult to see where they were going, and Jonathan and Geoffrey were so played out they couldn't go on without some rest. They had found a spot under some trees where not much snow had fallen. The two older men had curled up on the ground, while Preacher sat down and leaned his back against a tree trunk. What he did then couldn't actually be called sleep, since all his senses remained alert, but it was a form of rest, and he felt somewhat refreshed when he got to his feet and told Jonathan and Geoffrey it was time for them to be moving again. The sun was up, and Preacher intended to move faster now that they could all see where they were going.
Both of the older men groaned as they climbed awkwardly to their feet. Preacher could have told them that they would get mighty stiff sleeping on the cold ground like that, but they would remember it better for having gone through it. And their muscles would loosen up quickly enough once he got them moving.
“Are we going to have any breakfast?” Jonathan asked as he stretched.
Preacher handed him a strip of jerky. “Gnaw on that while we're going. That's all we got time for.” He pointed to a hill in the distance. “See that knoll over yonder? That's where we're headed. I think the young'uns ended up somewheres around there.”
“How in the world do you know that?” Geoffrey asked.
“Well, they kept makin' bigger and bigger circles. Sooner or later they're gonna come to a ravine that's too deep and too wide for them to cross, so they'll have to move northwest along with it.”
Jonathan said, “Why couldn't they go back southeast?”
“They could,” Preacher said, “but that'd mean turnin' around and doublin' back on their trail, and I don't reckon they would do that because they think they're goin' the right direction. They were movin' along steady-like, without stoppin' much, so Nate must've been convinced he was on the right track.”
“Well . . . maybe. I hope you're right.”
“So do I,” Preacher allowed. “Anyway, that ravine'll take 'em toward yonder knoll, and then they'll come to a good-sized creek that'll force 'em even more toward it, since I don't reckon they'll want to go swimmin' in weather this cold.”
Both Geoffrey and Jonathan shivered at the very thought of plunging into the icy-cold waters of a creek.
“We're gonna cut across country straight toward the hill,” Preacher said, “so I think we stand a good chance o' gettin' there either before they do or just about the same time.”
“I pray that's so,” Geoffrey said.
“Well, a mite of prayin' never hurt, that's for sure.” Preacher picked up his Hawken. “Let's go.”
They moved out at a brisk pace. As the sun rose higher, Preacher felt a wind from the south touch his face and knew it was going to be warmer today than it had been for several days. The snow on the ground would probably melt before the day was over, leaving a muddy mess in places. That could make things tricky when the wagons rolled out again, but it was jumping the gun to worry about such things now. For the moment, he had to concentrate on finding those kids and getting them back to their families.
He wondered briefly how it was going back there at camp, and if Dorothy Galloway had finally had her baby.
Angela had never seen so much blood in her life. She wasn't sure how Dorothy could still be alive after losing that much of the vital fluid, let alone be conscious and struggling to give birth.
“I've got to . . . turn it,” Angela said. As she had suspected, the baby was oriented incorrectly inside Dorothy's birth canal, and that was why the labor and delivery had been so difficult. But now that she was certain what was wrong, Angela hoped she could save them. All she could do was try.
From the back of the wagon, Roger asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
“No!” Angela practically shouted. “Just stay out of here, Roger.”
She heard Peter talking to Roger, no doubt trying to draw his brother away from the wagon. She used a rag to wipe away blood and mucus, and tried to slip her hand further into Dorothy's body to get a grip on the baby. It would have helped, she thought a bit wildly, if she had ever lived on a farm and helped deliver calves. This baby was as slippery as a newborn calf, that was for sure. And she had to be careful not to get the cord wrapped around its neck, or it could strangle before it got out.
Dorothy screamed and strained, and Angela felt the baby's head against her hand. She cupped it as gently as possible and urged it toward the outside world. “Push, Dorothy, push hard!” she urged, and suddenly she saw the top of the baby's head. “It's coming! A little more, just a little more!”
Another shrill scream, and the rest of the head emerged, then a shoulder and an arm and another arm
. . . It was a magnificent sight for all its grotesqueness. A new life coming into the world, born in blood and pain, strife and desperation, but at the same time filled with undeniable promise.
“Yes,” Angela said in a half whisper, as much to herself as to Dorothy, because it was doubtful that Dorothy could hear much of anything now. “It's coming, it's coming.. . . It's a boy! He's beautiful, Dorothy, just beautiful!”
Angela eased the baby the rest of the way out and placed him on a clean blanket. She used a corner of the blanket to wipe mucus away from his mouth and nose, and he took a deep, quavery breath and blew it out in a loud squall that brought a smile to Angela's mouth and tears to her eyes. Now the cord had to be cut and the afterbirth delivered. She tended to that quickly, then wrapped the blanket around the crying baby. As she tucked it in, she paid attention for the first time to the full head of wispy hair.
It was jet black.
That was odd, since Roger had sandy hair and Dorothy's was only slightly darker, a light brown. But the color of the baby's hair didn't really matter now. His lungs were healthy enough—he was proving that with every howl—and he had ten fingers and ten toes. Angela had done a quick count before she wrapped him up. Everything else could wait.
She stepped to the back of the wagon, pushed the flap open, and called, “Roger! Roger, come quick and get your son!”
Roger ran over, followed closely by Peter, and scrambled into the wagon. Angela placed the baby in his arms and said, “Hold him while I tend to Dorothy. Not too tightly now. You don't want to drop him, but don't squeeze him too much either.”
“I'll be careful,” Roger promised. Peter looked on from outside the wagon, an odd expression on his face, almost as if he were jealous of his brother while being happy for him at the same time.
Angela turned back to Dorothy, and had a bad moment when she looked at her sister-in-law's face. Dorothy's features were so pale and drawn that for a second Angela was afraid she was dead. But then she saw Dorothy's chest rising and falling slightly, and a moment later the new mother's eyes flickered open.
“My . . . my son . . . ?” she asked in a whisper.
“He's fine,” Angela said as she leaned over Dorothy and wiped her face. “A strong, healthy boy. He's fine, Dorothy, and you will be too.”
“His name is . . . John . . . John Edward . . . Galloway . . .”
“The name fits him,” Angela said with a smile. “It's a very distinguished name.”
“Promise me . . .” Dorothy's fingers caught hold of Angela's hand and held it with surprising strength. “Promise me . . . You'll take care of him. . . .”
“I won't have to,” Angela said. “You're his mother, dear. You'll take care of him and do a wonderful job of it.”
Dorothy's head moved weakly from side to side. “N-no. You've got to . . . promise . . .”
“I'll always do everything I can for you and your children.”
“Swear . . .”
“I give you my word,” Angela whispered.
With a sigh, Dorothy closed her eyes. Her head leaned back. Angela's heart leaped in fear, but again she saw that Dorothy was only asleep.
“Angela . . .” Roger said from behind her. “Angela, is she going to be all right?”
Angela stood up and turned to face her brother-in-law. “I won't lie to you,” she said quietly. “Dorothy lost a great deal of blood. It seems to have stopped now, but she was so weak to start with . . . I'll do everything I can, Roger. That's all I can promise you.”
Tears rolled down Roger's cheeks and dripped on the blanket wrapped around his newborn son. “You have to save her,” he said. “I can't live without her.”
“If you have to, you will.” Angela put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You have Nate, and now you have another son, John. You have to live for them, Roger, no matter what else happens.”
BOOK: Preacher's Journey
11.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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