Blood Mountain

By A. Foster

Sarah Houston Hawks, a young girl, a lone survivor on the trail west. She is found by Tall Feather. He is the fierce, intelligent medicine man for the people. He brings her home and makes Sarah his own daughter. She becomes Aponi. The problem is that her remaining rich and powerful family back east wants her returned... at all costs.

Why? Eugenics. Her mother was planned for, but she was not. Sarah was a love child, not a desired union. Yet, later it is found that she carries all the qualities the Hawks have worked toward for years.

What is Eugenics? That is a set of beliefs and practices that aim to improve the genetic quality of the human population. The Hawks' family and the Andrews' family had practiced birth manipulation time and again. The search for perfection was ever close, but out of reach. Then came Sarah.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Foster
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005238124

A. Foster

Hello friends,Thank you for taking a moment to check out my site. I hope one of my stories catches your attention. Love to hear from you. Please like me, follow me and above all, tell someone else. I would be so grateful.I love to write, all kinds of stories. I am interested in real pirates from long ago, spaceships of tomorrow and all the time travel I can get. When I am not writing, I am thinking about new stories to tell and try out. Love to attend campfires and volunteer in classrooms often. A great place to entertain and experiment on themes.Hope to be invited to your campfire one day...Have fun and keep reading, dreaming, writing and hugging those you love most.

Book preview

Blood Mountain

by

A. Foster

BooksbyAFoster.com

All rights reserved.

Copyright A. Foster, Ann Foster, Annette Foster

c/o BooksbyAFoster.com

Smashwords Version

"This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents

are the products of the author's imagination

or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events,

locales, or persons, living, dead,

mistaken for dead,

or undead,

is

entirely

coincidental."

Thank you.

This book is dedicated to my guy... my cowboy...

because he only reads westerns.

I also wish to say a very special thank you...

to my claimed father.

The wonderful cover art for this book was designed by

Aimee Simmons, [e-mail]

www.facebook.com/craftyk9

Table of Contents

1. Bounty of War or Finders Keepers

2. Welcome?

3. Going Back

4. Build a Fire

5. Maps, Secrets and Skipping Rocks!

6. Deals in the Dark

7. The River

8. Scavengers Make Trades

9. The Value of Gold

10. The Second Son

11. Visiting Relatives

12. As the Eagle Flies, the Bear Tracks

13. Watching the Detectives

14. Gamblers, Take their winnings and run!

15. Criss-cross, applesauce...

16. The Days of Wild Flowers and Wind Songs

17. The Home Coming

18. Lessons about life on the range...

19. Words, Deeds and Wills

20. Collecting Flowers

21. Back to the Crossing

22. The Map, The Scene of the Crime

23. The German

24. The Actions of Others, Guilty by Proximity

25. Always moving forward.

26. Pigeons, Curriers... the Express

27. How long is the night?

28. A Home Coming, an Arrest, a Jail Sentence, but No Justice.

29. When Time Stands Still

30. Every Mountain has a Pass

31. The Gate to Heaven, and the Entrance to Hell

32. Olympus is a Myth

33. Home Again, Crowned and Uncrowned

34. The Story of Wolves and Sheep

35. The Birth of a Son, the Delight of a Daughter

Glossary

General Information, Names Places, and Events

Diary Exerts and Quotes by Important Characters

New and Upcoming Books

God Bless

1) Bounty of War or Finders Keepers

The thick, white... canvas cover on the heavy wagon whipped back and forth in the harsh icy wind. The cold, a biting force looking for ways to take what it wanted and give nothing back but pain and death. The material had come untied somehow, and no one had corrected the problem. There was no one left able to do much about anything. The night was close, and the last rays of this day's light diminished in the distance. The dark mountains appeared like standing giants... too far away to care, and too large to be considered anything but flat, dime-store paintings against the horizon. They were truly lovely, but they were also no help at all. The spectacular star-filled sky would soon stretch from one end and back again; to the very edge... of eternity, or so it seemed. It would offer no solace, no comfort, and more apparent than the rest, no hope.

The cooking fire was long dead. Ashes were all that remained, blown about carelessly in the wind as well. Soon there would be no evidence at all of the warmth that the conflagration had once provided. That was a good thing, because a blaze of any kind, unattended in this weather would have been hazardous. The foothills in this part of the country were a common place for brush fires. It was bad enough... generally... with many signs of the great damage done by lightning strikes or other natural- phenomena. The addition of fires caused by accidental sources was unnecessary and unwanted. The violent storms; monsoons in summer and sheer ice and bitter-cold rain in winter, were frequent, but fast-moving. Survival of both horrific; but natural events by those that called this home was a constant battle.     

Wintertime in this seemingly dead terrain, this wild place of nothingness... was ruthless.  It brought freezing temperatures for the unprepared and fatal mistakes were often made by the unwary. The result... deadly.

The summers here, were not much better, offering blazing heat, and relentless thirst made them just as foreboding. The parameters of that hell, just a different set of variables. It too was just another kind of bad, but that time was very far off. No matter, help was not coming, either way; at least any kind that was easily recognizable.

The once strong and beautiful horses that had pulled the wooden home on wheels for miles and miles were still hitched. They were tightly attached to the wagon, their harness tied too firmly for small hands to release. That was particularly true when those same hands belonged to a little girl that had not eaten for days. The remembrance of drink... of clear, pure water an echo of that same problem. Empty boxes and containers were evidence of supplies that had all run out. Jugs, and a few barrels with nothing but dust at their bottoms... were solid proof of the dire circumstances. The fact was there would be no aid. Finished, was equal to the end of everything. The story was obvious, and it was already written in the cards. A specific point in time was the only capricious piece still left unknown.  A place, a space of a few breaths, and then there would be none... Silence would take over and death would solve every issue that was at hand. It... that instance; was at the very least, currently closer than it had ever been before.

One of the mighty work animals lay dead on the ground where it had fallen days earlier. While the other was probably not long for the world, it was still alive, barely. Lack of water, the most likely cause of the first death. That, sad circumstance had only worsened. Yet the remaining living beast was still stolidly standing in place, like a statue carved from stone. Again, it was also just a matter of time...before it too joined its near-perfect match.  Both were a testament to the severe, relentless, reality of the cruel trail.

The basic fact on a long list of things all gone wrong. There was no water. There had been no water for a long time. Maybe if she went and looked? Maybe if she tried? But to what end? The way they had come had been flat and lifeless, mostly. There were scrub bushes and short trees with thorns sometimes, but not much else. Slowly the desert itself had taken hold... and the promise of anything but thirst was left. There had been no sign of spring or creek at all. Miles and miles they had come and nothing had changed, or at least nothing that small eyes could see or pick out as helpful. The areas along the trail or what they thought was the path had shown promise for a while. It had been a mirage. The wagon had become lost, and the occupants; given over to fate. Father's fever was worse than even he knew... but he kept going.

The dirt... the sand... the rock...!

The washes and areas where water once flowed... possibly; were all empty at the moment. Every one of them, the sandy rocky areas they had passed had been bone dry. The indications of monster floods, gushing rushing waters; all momentary. Their measured appearance, now nothing more than shadows... of dark water. The eye picking up only the echoes of violent torrents that had shaped the land. The force of their passing having etched great gouges in the soil, and then moved on, forever. However, regardless of size, they were all completely dry now. The after prints of their torrential presence left as ruts in the hard, unforgiving ground. It was the time between storms. Just the wind, howling... crying, and even screaming every night non-stop. It went on until just before dawn, then and only then it would quit, at least for a while.

It made teeth chatter

and the bones rattle...

for all things  living,

life is never easy...

The girl's father had told her to always beware. He would point out such areas... those same places... the whip marks in the sand, the drag marks of trees and rocks..., and tell her, his sweet daughter of murky possibilities. They, the dry rivers of sand and powder... would be, or at least... could be;  suddenly full of raging... running water... in times of storm. It did not even have to happen nearby. The heavy clouds could dump huge amounts of rain... far up in the distant mountains. The torrent would then run down and fill the barren washes with a violent, angry... sludge-like mixture of bracken. It was a truly damaging force of nature, not to be taken lightly. Just because those areas did not always look dangerous, one should never take them for granted. Father had told her lots of things like that... before he was gone.

Yet... there was no water, no water anywhere.

Ghostly... vacant streams of dust,

ethereal echoes of soundless waves... all empty signs that marked the landscape.

Grandmother moaned low and tried to keep the pain to herself. Her body was on fire with the fever now and the battle was not going well. Time, the ending of her story was closer than ever before. The old woman was very important, or even all important to the little girl. Margaret Athens was her given name. She had raised Max, Sarah's father when his own mother passed. That had happened just after her own father's birth. Margaret was claimed as family. Sarah only knew her as Ma or Grandma. That is how Margaret preferred it. She had come to love Sara Houston as her own grandchild as well..., in all ways of true importance.

Sarah watched in mental agony as she could do nothing. The sickness had stripped away every thought of optimism and replaced it with sorrow and the tangible presence of fear. Loss; an evil force... persistent and unwanted, now a visitor, no longer a stranger at all... was hanging just nearby. It kept to the shadows, but It could still be seen.

This sequence of nightmare events was not at all like what happened with Sarah's own mother. That had been a wasting sickness. That is what the strange man at the hospital had told father. He was not a doctor like the others. No. He was very different than that. His words made Max more than a little angry too, Sarah could tell. Her dear father was not convinced by the stranger's words.

The bad man wore a tall red hat on his head; Sarah's mind filled in the picture for only a moment. It was a top hat but not of a normal or typical color. It looked funny? It stood out of place if anyone cared to question. No one did. Sarah could not or would not choose to remember more, at least at this time. Regardless of his words one way or the other, it had still taken months before Victoria, Sarah's mother died. Sarah had watched her wither away day after day until gone. This sickness now however was very different. It was an illness that spread from one to another. It killed the weak easily and took the strong at random. It, whatever it really was, had swept through the wagon train and left many dead. Some called it the pox, other the measles. There was no real doctor around to be the voice of truth and fact. Really, it did not matter as names of ailments, viruses, and the like meant very little at such a young age. The result all added up to the same outcome. Sarah was more than well acquainted with the fatality of those she loved in all cases. It would be okay with her if she never knew... as there was no way to really explain deep loss. That was, however; the only definition in her heart to all of it.

For a while, they, the wagon train boss and the elders that controlled the power and decisions kept things together. They let the slow... sick ones stick with them. But..., they were made to travel at the end of the very long train. They were allowed to follow as they could. The problem was that most could not follow at all... or at least at the pace the main train needed to keep. The story repeated itself each time. The evil of plague worked that way. It would be the touch of the grim reaper calling them into the darkness. It would take one member than another and then worst of all, the hunter and/or the breadwinner... the one that kept all the others in their family, alive. That would mean the death of the rest of their party. No one on the train itself would help, as they all feared it would pass again among them.

One wagon after another met a fate never considered. They had all packed well and planned hard, but sick... was just plain sick. No one truly had control over that. So the landscape had been littered with left behind parcels... humans, animals, and dreams alike. Dead beside the trail, they were all evidence of the severity, and relentlessness of the contagion. Sarah and her family were not the first at all. Maybe they were not the last, but she would never know.

Sarah just waited and waited. She listened intently to grandma... barely breathe. For a while she counted..., then she stopped. The time between intakes and exhales had grown steadily slower. Even a kid, knew what that meant. 

Father had died three days before... or was it four? The man's prone body still lay in the open. There was no hope of putting it under the ground. At just barely seven; digging a grave was not possible. It would have been difficult for a man much less a child. Sarah had tried to cover him up where he lay on the frozen earth. He had fallen and never moved again. The girl had used one of her beloved mother's patchwork quilts. The very memory of her sweet mother was enough to blind her with tears. The idea she had to drag the fine cloth through the dirt at this time, in this bad place, was a task nearly but not quite impossible. Sarah had used her favorite one, the really pretty one, the one with sunflowers in every square. That was true save the one square alone, in which Victoria had sewn a single special flower... It was white, with small leaves and green vines. It was the sign of her ancestor's family crest. It was the sign of her mother's people, the clan. The whole project had taken a very long time to sew together. It was the last one she had completed before she had passed away.

The wasting sickness had found and claimed Victoria, the young beautiful woman early in life. The man in the red hat had said as much. He had come and gone. He never appeared again. It had happened only one time.

As for the sickness, there had been no stopping it. Victoria Houston had never been a super strong individual, health-wise. It was a flaw of some kind, not in the planning of things. When she got seriously sick it had been hard on Sarah's father. When Victoria eventually died; the event had torn the man in two, helpless to fight a foe... unseen. The untouchable villain of a faceless monster, consumption. The loss had been especially hard on the big man, and going west was the opportunity to start over, and try to forget. He had taken his claimed mother Margaret; already living with them at that time and his little daughter on the ambitious trip of a lifetime. It was to be an adventure and a chance at freedom. His wife had made clear the dark history of her past, and that there would be repercussions from her death... possibly. It was all for the right reason; to go to a new land. The idea was to start clean, to break free. It had obviously... not gone as planned.

Victoria Loraine Houston, Sarah's mother had come from a family of good breeding, and they did not favor her marriage. It had been a point of contention, but in the end... agreement had been moot. After all, a woman is just a commodity and not of the same importance as a son or sons. Had there been no male children this might have been a different story.

Regardless, once Sarah's mother passed away, and her father became a single parent, they the family we're on a mission. There had been gossip heard by many; of them coming for the little girl... one way or another...  Once Victoria, her full name... Victoria Loraine Andrews-Hawks-Houston; but she preferred, simply Vicky Houston had been placed into the ground, the time had come. They were going to take Sarah back, and raise her among them. That was the right way, the respectable way... the only way, or so it was stated. But that would never happen. Sarah's father, Max Houston, promised mother, on her death bed that he would make sure of it. Sarah was afraid of this wild place, but her short memories of the clan were not favorable either. Father was a great man and Sarah never understood anything about why so many people were so mad. None of it made a lot of sense over what seemed to be nothing. Sarah's parents had been in love and Sarah was happy about that. Feuding and fighting were nonsense, and a waste of life or so her father always maintained. He was a common-sense fellow and unshakeable in his belief, God... Family... and Country. Sarah's mother fully agreed. 

Sadly, now, the lovely heirloom blanket her mother had sewn with adoring hands would be the forever garden to cover and comfort her precious father. That made it all bearable... somehow, at least in a small way. The girl was probably in shock;... but Sarah would never fully get over what was happening even if she lived through it. Yet her eyes were open then and now. Sarah would not look away. It was not in her blood to run and hide... so she watched into the gathering darkness of the coming night... with open eyes, as steadily as she could. Fear was not going to help, so action was the right plan.

Between fear and faith is the wilderness of the unsure.

Saying and quotes spoken out loud by Max Houston

It had been hard to lay the blanket across the stillness, the vessel that had been the man, prone... eternally cold. All the while Sarah had worked, tears had streamed down her face. But she had been quiet, and silent. She had remained hushed on purpose; as she could. Sarah did not want to have anything or anyone notice her or the focus of her attention, there on the ground.

The night was cold and getting colder.

Winter was in control of the land.

It was a grip; tight as steel... and felt by all.

Sarah had piled rocks all over the top of the spread until nothing could be seen of the lovely sunshine yellow, and warm-golden flowers at all. Every beautiful square, every cheerful shade of light and warmth... was hidden, and every stitch, unseen... but the love it held now and forever, sheltered her father. In the end, it was a fairly huge mound. It had also taken a lot of energy, and her hands hurt from the effort. Sadly, the reality; it was a poor attempt at a burial, but it was all that she could do. Sarah herself was weak from lack of food. The water too had run out, all of it. Going for help crossed Sarah's mind again, but out in this wilderness, there was no help to be had. The only possibility of any at all had been the wagon train itself. Fear of the sickness had made that impossible from the first sign of the bad wind, the demise of so many. Those still alive and well enough to travel were doing just that, as fast as the weather would allow. The goal for most, California and gold, or maybe the more northern route, Oregon? There they would find trees and good farmlands. Each traveler had their reasons, and none were willing to stop. To do so, more than likely would cost them and those they loved... everything.

This land was harsh,

and harsh were the decisions that had to be made... constantly.

Mike Frost had sure lived up to his name.   That was the man that led the train of hopeful pilgrims. Frost... a killing frost... He was the wagon master, or so he liked to be called... directly. To clarify it was either Master as if he were the deity of all..., or plain Sir! The undertow is that no one liked the man... no one at all.

Cold as could be; the mean, emotionless man had condemned Sarah's family to death. The others had not dared to cross Frost, the divine being. He had kept them alive on the trail up to that point and was not a man to be questioned. His authority was supreme. It was not just his size, which was huge by any standard, but his manner that demanded compliance. He looked hard like the big rocks that they sometimes passed by on the trail. The ones that had been there forever, and likely would remain so.

That was the way of things on the trail. It was accepted and not questioned. Mr. Frost was generally clean-shaven, which seemed out of place compared to the rest of his facade. It mattered little, as he still looked dirty always, in every other way. As for Sarah, it was his face that mirrored his name best. He never smiled. He never laughed or said anything to anyone that was not an order. That was just his way. Sarah had been engaged, riveted by... his ugly steel-blue eyes. She noted the rest of him too of course, but the eyes were otherworldly. They were the kind her grandmother would give to monsters in childhood stories. They... looked right through a person.

Sarah never liked Mr. Mike Frost, or rather Sir... from the start. His six-foot frame was a reflection of true cold in the way he moved. He pushed smaller people around on purpose, just because he was able... He was careless of others, their feelings, or their physical forms. To get in his way was to ask for trouble.

Frost's uniform, his clothing... warn in places, said much about his past. He was in control back then, the war. Probably the Mexico-American conflict. Sarah had no idea. He was some kind of low-level officer... and now was going to be no different... or else. Just because the battle had ended, and peace had been made... changed little or nothing. Perhaps the pilgrims were not recruited to be pushed around, but the premise was the same. The war was only recently over with the southern country, Mexico, and many of the men had found new positions, new jobs, new careers from their past. This one, however, Frost was still carrying much of the dirt found in battle with him. Either by accident, choice, or just plain destiny, he was damaged. Even Sarah could tell he was not a good man, and his passion for power was real.

Father had joined the wagon train and paid a great price to be included. The reason for that; there was safety in numbers. People could depend on each other and together they could do great things, or at least that was his stance. Now, was a different story, and the teachings of a new mantra were at hand. That being; survival of the fittest, and the lion's share is always greater than you think...; both are top on the list. Those lessons were life-changing and deadly. They, Sarah's family were now too far from anywhere to turn back, and there was nowhere to go on to, at least for them. When the big man came to their wagon... days ago... and spoke loudly his words were law. They, Sarah's kin... had the sickness and they were no longer allowed to be with the train. No one came forward to object. A few watched, a few others whispered, but there was no opposition or dissent in the end.

Father complied with the big man. He had done so without argument. Sarah knew it was not because her father had been a coward. No! He was the greatest hero in her life. He could do nothing wrong and he never failed. Well, at least until now... It was because of the sickness. Father understood. So far it had just been grandma, that was the woman he called mother... but she had it bad. Perhaps even then... that day... he had also known he too was sick. So long ago... Papa had left their little valley, they once called home for a new and perhaps greater dream. They had been sharecroppers, father's family anyway. Well, at least most all his family before now. This new land they were going to, it would have been their own. They would have farmed it for themselves and been truly free. This journey was to be a chance at something wonderful.

It is okay, father. Sarah voiced softly out loud to no one.

Sarah had watched that first day as the line of wagons moved off into the distance. They were not friends, but they were not enemies. They were simply other families and other people, going the same way, at the same time. Now they were doing it without her and her family. That was all true except for one. Tina Lu. She had been Sarah's best friend, from their very first meeting. It had been at the gathering point for all the wagons. Many people met many others there before setting out for the west. The two girls had come across each other in Missouri. Both were nearly the same age, both loved to laugh and talk like they had known each other forever and as far as they were concerned they had. A secret promise never to forget their friendship was all that was left now. It made life bearable for a little while. Sarah was the most broken over Tina's loss at that time. However, that was just the beginning of many more to follow.  Although the two girls came from very different backgrounds, it did not seem to matter at all. Friendships that are meant to be... just happen and are. They had become bound to each other, but only fate, herself knew if their paths would cross again.

The goodbye day, had ripped them apart. Just like the plans regarding so many other things, all just paper... equal to hope; dreams... torn, burned and made into ash.  

Tina, pretty..., smart..., dark-haired,... dark-eyed, Tina... had waved from the back of her family's wagon. She had continued to do so until the wooden home had moved far, far away into the distance. It was a sight Sarah would never forget. It was burned into her heart, even in this cold place. Tina had truly not stopped waving at all, or starring back... for a very long time... she just could no longer be seen by Sarah. She was broken in her own fashion. Her family's wagon relentlessly moved away into the unknown ahead. The difference was, they still had a goal. Sarah's family... did not.

Tina was gone, and there was nothing to help for that now. Sarah could not even bring tears to her own eyes any longer. Father had tried to be brave for Sarah's sake, but his eyes told the truth. They were all as good as dead. It was only a matter of time. Sarah was not new to death. Her mother, Victoria had died just a few years before. That had been a bad sickness of a different kind. They called it consumption. That was the final evil word in her head. Sarah was still confused by what that really was or had been, but it mattered little. Death was death regardless. The trip to the new land to the west had been her father's idea to get a fresh start. It would be a new life for his daughter in a place supposedly filled with giant trees. Her father had talked about it often. Oregon. Now he lay silent and did not talk... anymore.

The cold was bitter and sadly growing even harsher with the night oncoming. There was no sign of an end. Then... quite suddenly... there were riders outside of the wagon. Sarah heard the slightest rustling of sound. She was focused. Nothing was missed.

How? How in all the turmoil can one thing be more important than another?

The answer; when your heart races a thousand times faster in a single moment...

you know... you just know. That is the answer.

It was not like the rest, not like the wind at all, with its insidious howling like a wild animal. No. This was set apart... way more dangerous... The resonance was much lower but the reference was far more hazardous in a different way. She had been carefully, attentively gathering information. The patterns of things helped her stay quiet and not lose control. This new noise was altogether more serious than any others so far. It was not pieces of things being blown about or blown by. It was not an untamed animal, although she expected that to happen sooner or later. The smell of death always draws attention. Yet it was not that either. It was not from the big horse,  Sam. He, the poor beast was still alive, but not for long either. Sarah loved him so much, but there was no way to help him, she could not even help herself. The noise... there it was again. This time, closer than before. 

Petrified, but without choice... she dared to peek out of the wagon, not wanting to look at all, but no longer daring to ignore it. The answer was right there. Seven dark shapes on seven dark mounts. That is what she could see, fairly clearly, discerned from the shadows of nothing but black. The forms, they were men, talking strangely to each other. They were Indians. Sarah was young but not stupid. They had come to take what they could, and kill. It was the fate of those left behind, all knew it. 

Grandma... or rather... Ma's eyes were closed. Ma was the short name Sarah called the kind woman. Max thought of her as his own mother so Sarah claimed her too. By the soft wheezing; inhalation and exhalation of her breathing Sarah, was sure she had finally fallen asleep. The whole day before she had been talking funny. At one point she spoke about gold, and another... calling out in strange languages. In between episodes of madness and clarity, Margaret would grab Sarah's arm and plead for her to run and keep running. Then she would let go of her grip and cry a while. Lastly, she called for someone... named Star? The fever was very high at that time Sarah could tell, as she was hot to the touch. The little girl had no idea who Star might be?, but it mattered little. It was just a word among so many lost in half-spoken... gibberish.

At times, Sarah had taken a small paper-constructed fan and cooled her sweet Ma's face. Tina had shown her the secret, mystery of paper folding, just after they had met. It had been a new skill suddenly found very useful. A page from the book Ma kept as a diary had been sacrificed, but it had been for the right cause. Now, she was resting. Finally! It would not be good to rouse her.  Sara was not even sure she could. Father did not wake back up when he was close to the end. He just closed his eyes. That was okay with Sarah as it was a bit more peaceful. She made herself believe that it made dying easier.

Oddly, Sarah thought all along that Ma would die first. Maybe then father would take them on, to the train. But as she suspected he was sick too. He did not show it right off, but it was true. Sarah just did not think he would go first, into the heavens. 

Fear filled Sarah like; cold water in a glass. It filled her to the top and threatened to overwhelm her. Fear of losing all that she held close. Fear of being alone. Fear of dying. At her age, each separately and together combined to become a huge lump inside her very being. Sara was sick of it. Sick of all of it. A new feeling seeped into her belly. It was a hard knot of anger. It grew quickly. These Indians were more than likely going to kill her and her grandmother without a second thought. So there was little or nothing left to lose.

Sarah glanced around. Father's gun was not in the wagon. In fact, she could not remember where it was at the moment. Slowly she moved to the front of the buckboard wagon to where father normally sat to drive. There she slipped out of the canvas opening and onto the bench. Then without thinking any further about it, she leaped down to the ground. There were a few small rocks next to the wheel. In one swift motion, she grabbed two up and ran right out into the open.

Go away! Sarah screamed at the top of her lungs. Go away now! Picking out the closest rider she drew her arm back and let fly the first stone. It hit his pony square on the nose. The beast reared back, startled by the sudden attack. Go away I tell you! The shrill reckless tone of her small voice conveyed a multitude of emotions. It was a ghostly wail over the still present ice wind. Despair, grief, and above all anger fed her impulsive action. It also gave her strength she really did not have in the way of adrenalin. Now! The last word was a command and challenge all in one. If they were going to kill her they best do it now, by Sarah's way of thinking.

Brown Bear was offended, but ever so slightly amused. It had been his horse that bore the brunt of her attack. Not giving much thought to it, he motioned the other riders to move in and take what they wanted. They had been out raiding for some time and this was the best they had come across so far. This was easy pickings.

Sara drew back with all her might, and threw the second rock she held in reserve, missing both the rider and the horse this time. It was however noticed by Brown Bear that he was still being defied by this small female child. Sarah squared up, her shoulders, and stood tall, her feet apart. It was the best challenge she could give. Defiance! It had been the same stance that had worked against Charlie Meyers. That was the kid at the church picnic who had teased her about her braids. He had backed down. In fact, he had stopped teasing her altogether after that day. Sarah was not going to let this time be any different if she could help it.

The other men continued forward. All was lost, Sarah knew.

Then, unexpectedly another voice rang out, Leave her! This time it was Tall Feather. It was not a command, as Brown Bear was obviously the leader, but more of a statement of decision. He was not even sure himself why he had spoken, but knew well to follow his deeper impulses. 

Brown Bear looked over at Tall Feather. There was respect there, both ways. Each had been friends for their whole lives. Only recently their powerful placements had been given in the tribe. It had come on them... pressed before their time. It did not matter as they both were ready and raised to be so. One man was to lead the tribe and had already done well in a short period, while the other took care of the unseen. What that meant was harder to describe. He was also responsible for the general health and well-being of the people. The men were not equal in power, but they were equally powerful.

One glance is all he needed. Brown Bear turned his mount around and rode back out of the camp. The other men did not proceed with their acquisitions, they did not question anything, they just turned and followed. Brown Bear was an excellent leader even if he was still rather young. His father, Running Bear had died unexpectedly. It had been a bad time for a while after that for the whole tribe. However Brown Bear had proved out. He had found what they needed when they needed it and led with patience and strength, just as his father had.

The young leader really had no idea why Tall Feather was against the actions of his men, but a flood of memories from the past led him to know; there was always a reason. Tall Feather was a good man, and he felt close to him, just like brothers. It was hard to be that now, with so many demands on his own life. But, Brown Bear was still thankful; he could remember always. Brown Bear knew this time... his time to lead... would be better than it ever could be, because of his friend's contributions and wisdom. He did not take the man lightly.

All the Indians left... except one.

Tall Feather... the medicine man...  lingered. He kept his horse still and his body like stone. His stare measured everything. The age of the girl, the color of her hair, and more importantly her facial features. The expression he read there easily echoed more than simple stupid bravery. A grown adult warrior could only hope to have such strength of intent.

The man, the medicine man was dark-eyed, well-muscled, and older than her father, Sarah could see. His face was marked by a smeared, white-painted-hand-print that covered his cheek and neck area. It made him look scarier than the others in a way Sarah could not explain. One part of her wanted to jump up and down in relief that the rest of the men had left. How could that be? How could that happen? The other part was sure that the danger had not passed. In fact, it had in some way increased.

Tall Feather looked up at the great moon in the sky, and then he recited some strange words Sarah could hear him clearly but could not understand. Then he too turned his horse away from the camp and just left. He went like all the rest.

Sarah fell to the ground shaking. It was not from the cold this time, but from the overwhelming terror that had ultimately consumed her. After a long while, she dared to move again. She dared to get up. Hours had passed and it was now just before dawn. The wind had begun to calm down, at least a bit. The morning was close. Shaking all over Sarah moved back to the wagon and climbed in next to her Grandmother. Why they, the men... had left was beyond her? They could have done anything, and Sarah had figured that was their plan. Take what was left of her family's possessions and kill them. They had not. Sarah pulled the blankets close around herself and Ma, then closed her eyes. If she was to see the morning sun it was up to God. If not, then resigning herself to die with her grandmother there in the wagon was all that was left to do.

The wind had stopped completely. There was a chill in the air, but not as bad as all the days before. Sarah woke, keeping her eyes shut for a few, very long heartbeats. Praying, really. Perhaps by some crazy chance, she could just wish herself back home to the little valley. For that matter, she wanted to be back in time too... back when her mom was still alive and life was safe. Maybe she would never be safe again? If she opened her eyes, Sarah knew that reality would come crashing back in and she would be in the wagon. Ultimately there was no choice so she accepted her fate and opened her eyes.  Then she checked her grandmother's brow. Still a fever there, but not as hot as before, yet still too hot.

Sounds outside the wagon filled her with fear once again. The men were back? They were doing something upfront by Sam, the last horse? Perhaps it was not the men at all, but the poor thing simply dying? Sara drew the last of her strength together and got up. She moved to the opening at the wagon front and peered out. The man with the painted face was back, only him. He had his hand on Sam and was softly talking to the animal. Sarah could not begin to understand what the man was saying but he did not seem to be hurting the horse. In fact, he had cut the leather straps and released him altogether.  Sarah was thankful in her heart... as she had tried several times and failed. Then the stranger led Sam away from the hitch, talking quietly to him the whole time.

Slowly the Indian pulled a pouch from his waist. Methodically he put his right hand into it and pulled it back out. It was covered in the same white stuff that matched the color of the painted print on his face. Then he placed his hand on the bridge of Sam's nose. All the while he moved... he spoke in an odd sing-song manner.

"You are a strong one and have traveled far. I would keep you as my own, but you must understand that may not be. You belong to the crazy child. She still has hope and therefore will not come with me until all is lost. So, I set you free." Tall Feather moved to Sam's rear and slapped him hard. He whinnied and ran off out of the camp.

The Indian noted that the house on wheels had sounds within. Obviously, the girl was awake. Why he bothered with her, Tall Feather was not sure. Something tugged at him from the night before. It was a feeling, an emotion... not to be ignored. He did not have clear words for the powerful pull and sensation of movement he had... but the sentiment and sensation were real.  It was a director of his very spirit traveling; forward in his life. This little one had the courage that reflected the likeness and similarities of his own daughter. That was an important point. Tiny Bird had guts too. That is before she had died two summers back. There had been a raid. She had not been taken. Tiny Bird had stood her ground also before the warriors that had come that night. By all accounts, she had even ended the life of one of the attackers, before her own had been taken. That was something to be proud of, and to remember. Bravery and courage were a blessed mark made on an individual. It did not matter to Tall Feather if it were a daughter or son, he would have been just as proud. But he was also, just as empty... with Tiny Bird gone.

Tall Feather did not look at the wagon directly. Hearing the movements within the giant wooden cart was enough. She would be watching him. She would be afraid of course. Stupid if not. Stupid was not worth his time. Valiant, now that was worth everything. Brown Bear might have let her live. He may even have brought her back to the tribe as a slave or to be adopted as one of them. Brown Bear did not understand that in taking a thing and making it yours forcibly, sometimes changed it. If you wanted it to be true, you had to do things differently. Tall Feather had admired the daring it took to stand before the family, his family and defy them. That was mad magic. It was the very spirit of a thing that needed to be preserved. Tall Feather was the tribe's medicine man. He had been forced into the role early after the raid that took Tiny Bird. Silver Fox the old medicine man had died as well. Up until then, he had been teaching Tall Feather to take his place, but that should not yet have been for many moons. That raid had changed much. Brown Bear would probably not have listened to him last night if it had not been for the respect the man had for Tall Feather's position. The man knew he had stepped out of the shadows to stand up for her... this little weed? Why? That still eluded even him. Time would have to give him that answer. His thoughts were clouded.

The Indian walked back to his horse. He pulled a pouch of food and a skin of water off its back and tossed them toward the fire ring. Then without hesitation, he mounted, turned, and rode out.

Sarah watched him go without moving a muscle. Finally, her grandmother moaned softly. Sarah looked over. She grew quiet again.

Hungry, thirsty, and consumed with curiosity, Sarah opened the wagon flap a bit wider and jumped down.  She walked over to the bags and peered inside. The pouch was full of dried meat. The skin was full of water.

Why had he helped?

Quickly she ran back, bringing both treasures with her to the wagon. Once safely inside she dared to drink from the skin provided. Then she carefully helped Ma to do the same. She tried her best and kept trying. Then she opened the bag of meat and placed a small portion into a little cup of water. It was all she could think to do, to soften the stiff pieces. In the end, it did not work. Ma, would not, or simply could not eat.

A handful of days passed one into the next. Each morning, just before dawn there would be a new skin of water and a small amount of additional food. It would be placed in exactly, the same place, each, and every time. Sarah never saw the Indian again as he left the items. But she knew it was him. 

The young girl watched as her grandmother grew weaker and finally passed away. Sarah found she had no tears at all to give that day, at that time. Instead, she was numb inside and hollow in some areas of her heart that may never feel again. Small hands removed the pendant Ma wore around her neck, and then placed it around her own. A cross, of solid silver, was hanging as a charm at the end. The last moment had come. Sarah was alone. She was sad, but she was not sick.

The wild-faced... man... had returned twice more since Ma's passing. He continued to leave the water and food even still, never staying long, never attempting to confront her in any way. Today, however... was different.

The sun rose ever so slowly high in the sky. Sarah put her best Sunday dress on. She gathered a few belongings in a bag... slung the strap over her shoulder and went outside. There she stood just at the edge of the open area, nearer the fire ring and further from the wagon. There she waited.

It was a bright beautiful day, despite all the bad things that had happened.

The Indian man, the stranger...  approached the camp slowly... walking his horse in.

Tall Feather had watched from afar the whole time... He had kept predators away. He had kept the rest of the tribe... away. The man had waited for what he knew would come. Finally, he felt the passing of the evil cold, the one that comes and takes. He knew death had visited... and collected whatever was its due. The iciness was gone, but the emptiness, the vacant sorrow it left behind was tangible still.

Tall Feather continued in... closer and closer. He finally stopped... and waited. He wanted it to be her... not him that made the first real move.

Staying with the wagon was only going to get her killed. Ma was gone. There was no way to bury her. There was nothing else that could be done, as there was no one left. Sarah had kissed the old woman's brow for the very last time. Then she had made a decision. Maybe it was already made for her, but somehow she felt she still had the smallest, say. The girl climbed out of the wagon, full knowing it was the only way ahead. That had given her power of purpose.

Now she was in the open. Sarah stood only about five or six paces from her