Sweet Sarah Ross

“Why did you figure that?”

“To let him know that I knew he was there and that I wasn’t moving. I’ve been standing here immobile for an age and am heartily sick of it.”

He controlled himself to say levelly, “Since his teeth are much bigger than yours, that was a risky strategy to pursue.”

“What would you have had me do instead?”

“Climb into the safety of a tree, to name but one idea.”

Her brown eyes flashed with magnificent scorn. “I will not be treed by such a mangy creature, as you so aptly described him! I had no assurance that you would return to deliver me from the branches, and so I made my decision to die standing up. You will grant me that measure of dignity, surely, even in these thoroughly undignified circumstances.” With a lofty gesture toward his bed of leaves, she informed him summarily, “I have finished the embroidery on your shirt. I am quite pleased with the result.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her astonishing success in staring down that peculiar prairie wolf, who was either unusually cowardly or remarkably wise. He himself remembered that discretion was the better part of valor and concluded that he didn’t want to mess with her while she was in this mood any more than did, perhaps, the wolf. Nor did he think it wise to comment on the brilliantly hued bird that now adorned his shirt, so he put that piece of clothing on in silence.

At the moment he decided it was time to find some food and moved away from his tree, he was jumped on from behind. Writhing vigorously, he put his attackers to the test before his mouth was gagged and his arms were wrenched and tied behind his back. In his twisting and turning, he was able to see that Miss Harris had been set upon by three men, Indians by their dress and hair, and that she was being bound and gagged, as well. Their eyes met briefly. Hers flashed with surprise and terror. Raging against his helplessness, he redoubled his efforts, but he did not effect his release, since he had determined that not three but rather four men were holding him.

He strained to catch words or phrases from the language the Indians were speaking to one another. They hadn’t said enough for him to know whether the Teton Sioux had finally caught up with him, and he hadn’t had a close enough look at the warriors following him three days before to know whether they were the same ones now. All he could think was that either he had been careless and had led them straight to the camp or the prairie wolf had somehow alerted them to this human hiding place.

However the Indians had tracked them down, he and Miss Harris were in for it now. He was being pushed and pulled around the spring, and made to stumble up the rocks and over a ridge to where the Indians had left their horses. He wished he could see how it was going for her, but she was being kept out of his sight range. The Indians mounted their horses. One end of a rope was tied around his waist, the other end around one of the horses, which meant that he was going to be forced to trot along on the ground beside the rider. He imagined that Miss Harris was subjected to this same unhappy means of travel.

The party took off, seven men on horses plus a man and a woman on foot. Powell regretted that he wasn’t wearing the boots he had retrieved from the dead man. He regretted that she wasn’t wearing her ankle boots, even without the laces. He regretted that he hadn’t at the very least had the foresight to make them two new pairs of moccasins.