Sarah's Heart (4 page)

Seeking sanctuary
from the ongoing horror, Sarah quickly crawled into the back of Mr. Simm’s
wagon. After a minute to allow her eyes to adjust from the brightness outside,
she took a deep breath. The interior smelled of the familiar pipe smoke that
had followed the wagon master around. In her opinion, the crooked stem and
carved bowl hanging from his lips had given him a distinguished air, and she
warmed at the remembrance of his shared adventures around the campfire. Some
were barely believable. He’d always cast a wink in her direction when he told a
whopper, but despite his embellishments, he’d clearly led an interesting life.
Although she barely knew the man, a pang of sadness tugged at her heart,
knowing that he’d be spinning no more exciting yarns.

His wagon was a mess
of clothing, bedding, and empty crates left haphazardly tossed about. A pair of
Mr. Simm’s long johns hung from a wooden peg on the wagon bow, appearing to be
the one thing left undisturbed. A gentle breeze passed through the canopy,
sending an unnerving ripple through the underwear and hackling the hair on the
back of Sarah’s neck. She felt somewhat ridiculous at being frightened by a
mere garment, but she yanked the unmentionable from its hanging place and
tossed it aside.

Remembering her
mission, she knelt and crawled around the wagon floor, moving through the mess
and searching every nook and cranny. The Indians had taken
all
the
foodstuff, and there appeared to be no trace of anything that might
cure Molly’s fever. They had even smashed the Captain’s lamp. Sarah had hoped
to find a spare one. As a last resort, she could try some kerosene on Molly’s
wound. Maybe it would help her as it had Sarah when she had the croup as a
child. Her mother had mixed the lamp fuel with sugar and fed Sarah a spoonful.
Her face pinched, recalling the awful taste.

Abandoning her
search there, Sarah moved on to the next wagon, and then the next. She paid
little attention to how badly burned some were, taking great care to scour
through anything that hadn’t been totally destroyed. Gazing down at her
blackened hands, her despair grew. She bordered on defeat when her knee came to
rest on a hard lump beneath a pillow in the Holstein’s
wagon. Mr. Holstein’s gentle face flashed in Sarah’s mind. He reminded her in
many ways of her father—tall, slim, and a gentle man of few words. Mr. Holstein
had sold the livery stable he owned in St. Louis,
and with his wife, Marjorie, traveled to California
to mine for gold. His eyes had gleamed when he spoke of his prosperous destiny.
It seemed to Sarah that most of the travelers on the wagon train had been
stricken with the same affliction—that distinctive sparkle marking those
seeking the elusive treasure, that glimmer of hope showing on their faces
despite leaving family homes and loved ones behind. Sarah viewed it as greed
rather than an adventure, but then she had left Missouri for an entirely different reason,
and it had nothing to do with getting rich.

Her mouth spread
into a wide grin when she pulled a whiskey bottle, half-full, from beneath the
bedding. Thank God for Mr. Holstein’s taste for the devil’s brew. At last,
something positive amidst all the carnage. She scooted on her bottom across the
wagon bed, dangled her feet over the end and scurried back to Molly. Sarah felt
so
excited,
she paid no mind to the unpleasantness
now.

“Molly, I’m back.”
Sarah began yelling before she even reached the wagon. The amber-colored liquid
swished from one side of the bottle to the other as she ran.

Hoisting herself up
on the tailgate, Sarah swiveled around and crawled to Molly’s bedside. She held
up the whiskey. “Look what I found.”

Molly’s eyes were
closed, her parched lips cracked and bleeding. For the moment, she lay still,
but the flush of her skin showed that the fever still raged within her.

 
Sarah feared it too late, but she knelt next
to Molly, untied the binding cloth, and planned how to remain calm and rational.
She took a deep breath. “Let’s get that bandage off and take care of your
shoulder. Once you’re better, we’re going on a journey.”

She tried to remain
optimistic, but bile bubbled into her throat as she eyed the pus-oozing lesion.
It was no wonder Molly was so sick. No telling what coated the arrowhead Sarah
had pulled from Molly’s body, but hopefully the whiskey would help get rid of
the deadly infection.

Sarah held the
bottle above Molly’s shoulder. “This is probably going to hurt like Hades, but
I have to do this. Do you want something to bite on? Molly? Can you hear me,
Molly?”

There was no answer.

With a disappointed
sigh, Sarah used her free hand to swat a wisp of hair away from her mouth. She
clutched the whiskey bottle, wondering again why God had picked her to be the
one to live, the one to help Molly survive. Sarah wasn’t strong. Nothing in
life had ever prepared her for something like this. Even when her parents were
sick with the fever, the doctor and a neighbor lady came and took care of them
until nothing more could be done. Had those folks felt this way?
Helpless and scared?
Sarah’s hands trembled as she grasped
the bottle.

Tipping the
container, Sarah winced as the liquid trickled out onto Molly’s pale skin.
Although her face screwed with pain, she didn’t make a sound, as if she just
didn’t have the energy. At least Sarah noticed some reaction and felt
encouraged. She allowed more whiskey to seep into the wound, and then doused a
new piece of flannel with even more and pressed it against Molly’s shoulder.
She retied the securing bandage, tucked the blankets beneath her friend’s chin
and sat back on her haunches. It was up to God now.

Any improvement
would take time. She pulled her pillow closer to Molly’s pallet and leaned back
against it, gazing at her patient’s face and hoping she enjoyed a peaceful
slumber. She reached beneath the cover and grasped Molly’s hand. “Well, my
friend. I’ve done everything I can do to help you. Now it’s up to you. You have
to fight, Molly. Fight with every fiber of your being. I know this isn’t at all
how you planned to start a new life, but we can share one together. You just
have to want to get better. Gil would want you live, Molly. I know he would.”

Sarah sighed again.
She hadn’t even known Gil, other than what Molly had shared with her. The two
lovers had met in St. Louis and moved to Independence to wait for
the next wagon train. Gil had hopes of finding gold in California, but even if he didn’t, with his
carpentry skills, he knew he could find a job building sluice boxes for the
other miners. He and Molly had only been married for six months, but she
already had babies on her mind, lots and lots of babies. Sarah glanced over at
Molly, still a child herself, and remembered how her eyes sparked when she
talked about having Gil’s children.

“You know, Molly,
you’ve at least had time with the man you loved. I’ve never had the honor. My
family moved around so much, from one town to another, that I considered myself
lucky to even find a beau.” Sarah stopped short of dredging up painful
memories. “Ma used to say that Pa was born with his valise packed to move.”
Sarah chuckled. “I thought for sure when we settled in Hannibal that things
would change, that I might have a chance to make friends and have a social life,
but as the only child, I spent all my time helping my parents to get the farm
going. Finally, Pa had found the land for which he searched. Of course that
meant I had to pitch in. There were fields to be plowed, seeds to be planted,
and cows to be milked…” She sighed. “Oh don’t get me wrong. I loved my parents,
and I nearly died myself when they were taken from me, but I wish I could know
the kind of love you shared with Gil. That’s why I know he would want you to
fight to live.” Her gaze lingered on Molly’s face, and then moved to the slow
rise and fall of her chest.

Poor Molly, not only
had she lost her husband, but her dream died with him. Sarah’s mouth pulled
into a frown. At least Molly had had a dream. Sarah hadn’t looked any further
than tomorrow when she joined the wagon train. She only knew she had to get
away from Silas McCann.

Lost in her feelings
of hatred, Sarah heard footsteps outside the wagon. Her breath caught in her
throat as images of painted faces and blood-curdling war cries replayed in her
mind. Had the Indians returned? Sarah quickly got to her knees, leaned across
her friend and whispered, “Molly, please, you have to be quiet. Don’t move.”

Using her body,
Sarah pinned Molly to the bed to keep her from stirring. For a fleeting moment
Sarah worried she might injure the woman further, but realized one noise might
make death imminent for both of them.

 
The hackles on the back of Sarah’s neck rose
as the distinct sounds of rifling grew louder in the camp. Wood splintered,
dishes broke and strange voices spoke in an unknown tongue. Sarah’s heart beat
so loudly she feared the intruders might hear it. She rose just long enough to
lock her fingers around the butt of her father’s gun. Her mind spun.

Afraid to move,
Sarah tried to plan her actions. What would she do if the Indians came inside
Molly’s wagon? They’d already gone through everything, what more could they
want? It appeared her only chance for survival was to play dead, but how? Even
a little movement might give her away. She had to do something, and quickly.
The voices grew closer. The hair on her arms stood at attention.

Something else
seemed wrong. Molly hadn’t stirred for quite a while. Concern overcame Sarah’s
immediate fear, and very slowly she moved her hand to Molly’s mouth, checking
for breath. Her bow-shaped lips were slightly parted, but no air passed through
them. Eyelids that had fluttered in fretful sleep were now eerily still. A
silent scream rose in Sarah’s throat, but still hopeful, she inched ever so
carefully down the girl’s body to press an ear against her chest. The only
heartbeat Sarah heard was her own. Her accepting gaze rested on Molly’s
peaceful face—once flushed with fever, it now appeared gray and lifeless. Sarah
lifted her eyes toward heaven. Biting her lip until she tasted blood, she
wondered if in a few minutes she might join her friend in death. A menacing
shadow crossed the bonnet. Sarah took a huge gulp of air and held it. She was
too afraid to breathe out.

Chapter Four

The voices outside
grew louder and were close enough that Sarah knew they came from two men. She
choked back tears, daring not risk even a sob for the loss of her friend. Sarah
held fast to her pistol, even though it seemed her last resort since she had
never actually fired it. It was one thing to hold a rifle and take all the time
you needed to find your mark, but with the sidearm, she doubted she could hit
the side of a barn. Even if she was fortunate enough to shoot one of the
savages, the other would certainly overtake her. She feared there might even be
more Indians in the camp, other than the two she heard, and discharging a
weapon would draw their attention. Frantically, her gaze searched the wagon’s
interior, looking for something—anything to crawl under.

Sarah’s mind fixed
on a desperate plot for survival when she focused on the arrow lying on the
floor just a few feet away. It had landed just where she tossed it after
pulling it from Molly’s shoulder. Would it be possible that the very thing that
took her friend’s life could save Sarah’s
?She
inched
forward and, with trembling fingers, grabbed the feathered dart.

Glancing at Molly’s
body, Sarah’s throat tightened with fear. No matter how awful things seemed,
she wasn’t ready to die. She wasn’t sure what life had in store, but she wanted
a chance to see. Clenching her teeth, she moved with the stealth of a mountain
lion so as not to sway the wagon. She stretched out on her stomach alongside
the pallet and Molly. Sarah hid the gun beneath her and tucked the arrow in her
armpit so that the shaft stood tall in the air. Preparing to hold her breath,
Sarah hoped her ploy gave the Indians the impression that she had already been
mortally wounded. She held that arm still at her side to keep the arrow steady,
and waited. Her mind flashed back to the horrid scene in the compound, and she
gingerly fingered a long strand of her hair that had come lose from its
binding. Would she end up scalped like most of the others? She winced at the
image.

Within moments, the
tailgate dipped under the weight of a body. A chill ran through her, but she
quietly inhaled and remained perfectly still. The distinct sound of the tarp
rippling, the movement of the wagon bed, and shuffling feet close to her made
it easier to hold her breath than she expected. Fear froze her inhalations. The
hard, cold metal of the gun dug uncomfortably into her hipbone, but terror
petrified her.

From the location of
the voices and a sudden sway to the front, she felt certain that one person
searched inside and the other perched on the wagon tongue. She heard rifling
noises from the driver’s box and angry words in that same strange dialect.
Sarah prayed that the beads of sweat she felt forming on her forehead didn’t
give her away. She took a tiny breath, struggling to keep her eyes shut,
although she longed to take just a peek. Then the intruder stepped alarmingly
close to her head, and she fought a shiver. God, please don’t let him see me
breathing, she silently prayed.

Sarah knew he
searched through the wooden box just a few feet beyond her, the very one that
had held the flannel and shears she’d used. From the soft things cascading onto
her body, and heavier things thudding to the floor around her, she guessed he
tossed things about. He seemed so close, Sarah smelled him—the musky scent of
animal hides and sweat. She crinkled her nose in disgust.