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She came to a creek that had to be crossed before going onward. She dismounted and studied the rushing waters, a rude reminder of the storm that had delayed the attack of the Chippewa village. The water in the creek had not yet receded, even now tearing savagely at the banks, leaving them torn and furrowed in its wake.
Mariah caught sight of a black snake as it glittered and slid into a rift in a cottonwood tree near her, reminding her that water moccasins were prominent in this area, should she try to cross the creek, and fail.
Casting fear aside, she looked farther upstream, seeing that it wandered willfully to the right and left, with many a turn.
Then she spied an irregular line of large stepping-stones that the water was rushing across. That seemed to be her only hope of crossing the creek today, or perhaps even tomorrow, unless she traveled farther upstream to see if it was shallower somewhere else.
“I don’t have time for that,” she murmured to herself. “The Indians don’t have that much time for me to waste. . . .”
Wary of her decision, yet knowing that she didn’t have much choice, Mariah rode onward until she reached the stones. Gripping hard to the horse’s reins, placing her knees solidly against the sides of her mustang, she u
rged her horse onto the rocks, its hooves unsteady as the rush of the water slapped against them.
Wide-eyed, scarcely breathing, Mariah watched as her horse seemed to brave the savagery of the water well enough, sighing when the opposite shore was almost reached.
But just as she was urging her mustang to solid ground, its hooves slipped. Mariah was thrown forward to the ground as the horse toppled back into the creek, swiftly carried away in the current. When Mariah landed on the ground, her head hit with a thud, momentarily stunning her.
When she regained her full faculties, her eyes became wild as she looked desperately around her. Her heart sank when she recalled her mustang being taken downstream. She hoped it would climb ashore where the current slowed.
But now she would have to travel the rest of the way to Fort Snelling on foot!
“How can I?” she sighed woefully, placing her hand to the small of her back. It seemed that every bone in her body ached from the damnable fall.
A more terrifying thought seized her. “My rifle!” she gasped aloud. “It was on my horse!”
Weaponless, and without a horse, she knew that she was at the mercy of anything and anyone that happened along. She had no choice but to get to her feet and start her long journey to Fort Snelling. Delaying even a moment longer could cost her her life!
“But I’m so tired,” she whispered lethargically. “I’m . . . so . . . hungry.”
She stretched out on the ground, hugging herself to ward off the chill. “I’ll sleep for just a little while, then go on my way. . . .”
Her eyes closed. Sleep came to her quickly . . . a deep sleep.
* * *
Exhausted from the journey, and weak from his injury, Echohawk staggered toward Chief Silver Wing’s circle village of skin lodges that were fitted among birch trees, the leaves of the white birch trembling in the breeze. A few children at play on a slight rising of ground were the first to perceive Echohawk and his people. A cry of “Strangers arriving!” sounded the alarm, and mounted braves soon rode out of the village and stopped close to Echohawk, recognizing him.
Yellow Wolf held Echohawk alert as Wise Owl, one of Chief Silver Wing’s most valued braves, dismounted beside him.
“Echohawk, what has happened to you and your people?” Wise Owl said, recalling the last time he had been with Echohawk. They had shared in the hunt. They had later shared cooked venison over an outdoor fire before going their separate ways to their own villages. Theirs had become a special friendship.
Echohawk recognized the voice of his friend. “Wise Owl,” he breathed out, his voice barely audible. “My father, Gray Elk, lies dead on a travois behind me. Our people were attacked by white men. Our village . . . It was . . . destroyed.”
With a weak and limp hand Echohawk gestured toward his people, who stood devotedly behind him. “These are but a few of the survivors,” he said sadly. “Others are on the hunt and will soon discover the carnage left at our village.”
He paused, inhaling a quavering breath, then resumed speaking. “We have come to ask Chief Silver Wing for assistance. He was a valued friend of my father’s.” He swallowed hard. “And since I have become acquainted with him this past year, he is also a trusted friend of mine.”
“It is with much sorrow that I hear of your misfortunes,” Wise Owl said, taking Echohawk by the arm. “Come. You will ride with me. I will take you to Chief Silver Wing. He will be saddened also by the news you are bringing him. He held Chief Gray Elk in the highest regard.”
Echohawk shrugged himself away from Wise Owl’s gentle grip. “I enter your village on foot with my people,” he said, lifting his chin proudly, even though sieges of light-headedness were throwing him off balance. He was not sure how much longer he could stay alert, much less continue walking.
But he must, he thought stubbornly.
For his people, he must!
“As you wish,” Wise Owl said, giving Helping Bear a troubled glance as Echohawk grabbed for Helping Bear to keep himself from tumbling to the ground.
After Wise Owl saw that Echohawk was going to be all right, with Yellow Wolf moving quickly to his other side to offer assistance, he mounted his horse again and rode ahead, escorting Echohawk and his people on toward the village.
