Ruth (11 page)

A baby’s cry came to her, weaker this time.

Concern for personal safety fled as Ruth stepped on a wheel spoke and heaved her slight weight into the burning wagon bed. The wail intensified—and then she saw it. A tiny hand waving above a makeshift bed secured against one side of the conveyance.

Horror filled Ruth.
Hurry. Hurry!

Swallowing back dread, she fought her way through thick smoke.
Hurry! Hurry!
Coughing, her lungs burning, she refused to acknowledge the licking flames. The child’s cough and strangled screams tore at her heart.

She snatched up the infant and the blankets around it and stumbled her way blindly back through the wagon. Bits of burning canvas filled the air, burning holes in her shirt, but Ruth ignored the pain and clutched the screaming infant to her chest. With one hand grasping the wagon frame, she hurled a leg over the tailgate. In her haste, her foot caught and she sprawled out of the wagon, but she kept a firm hold on the child. Her breath was knocked out in a whoosh, and for a moment everything turned black. She staggered to her knees, then to her feet, and ran away from the wagon, now fully engulfed in flames. Ruth sprawled back to the ground and groaned audibly, now acutely aware of burns on her shoulders, arms, and hands. But she’d made it out alive, and the baby was safe.

The baby snuffed and grasped Ruth’s hair with its tiny hands. Balancing the infant on her lap, Ruth drew back the blanket.

A round, smoke-smudged face dominated by large brown eyes peered up at her. Tears formed dirty rivulets down its cheeks, and its pug nose was running. Absently, Ruth wiped the moisture with a corner of the blanket.

Serious dark eyes studied Ruth, and then a short stub of a thumb popped into a rosebud mouth. A thatch of straight, black-as-coal hair fell over the rounded forehead.

“Oh, my,” Ruth murmured.

The baby looked to be about six or seven months old. Just big enough to sit up alone and perhaps begin to crawl. Ruth studied the little chubby hands, the fingers wrapped around her thumb. Perfect little nails and smoke-smudged, brown skin.

“Why, you’re an Indian baby,” Ruth whispered. “What were two grown men and an Indian baby doing out here alone?” The gruesome discovery didn’t make sense, but Ruth was so exhausted she could hardly think. What were they doing here? Unless . . . unless the two men had stolen the baby. But why? Why would two men steal an infant? That didn’t make any sense. Still, here were two white men, probably both dead, and an Indian baby. Had the Indians followed and massacred the thieves? But if that was the case, why didn’t the Indians take the baby with them? Nothing made sense here, but the fact remained that an infant survived, and the child was now her responsibility.

Ruth sighed, gazing down at the child, whose eyes were beginning to droop with sleepiness. Behind them, flames destroyed the wagon. “What am I going to do with you?”

The baby peered up at her as if to say, “I thought you might know.”

Something twisted inside Ruth. A baby. Knowing she could never have children of her own, Ruth had carefully pushed all thoughts of a baby to a dark corner of her mind and safely locked the door. God didn’t intend for her to have children, nor a young husband. . . . The two naturally went together.

But she wouldn’t think about that—not now. If she didn’t think about it, then it wouldn’t hurt.
You cannot care about this baby; it isn’t your child. It belongs to someone else. Don’t care about it; don’t get attached to it. Just take care of it until you can get it to someone.

Her eyes searched the area. Now what to do? What to do about those two men? Could she just leave them out here like this? She had nothing with which to dig graves. She could say a few words over them, but that was all she could do.

Immediately a host of new problems presented themselves. Food. The baby was probably hungry, and she had no food or milk to feed it. She could barely feed herself. Shelter. Ruth struggled with a flooding sense of urgency to leave the scene of massacre as quickly as possible. Refusing to acknowledge minor burns that now were quite painful, Ruth made her tired mind think logically. What should she do first?

Holding the baby close, she turned back to survey the scene. The wagon was nearly gone. Even as she stared, the wagon bed burned through and fell to the ground, taking the remainder of the canvas with it as the wheels fell inward. Soon all that would be left were ashes the wind would blow away.

What had two men been doing with a baby? Would anyone miss the thieves? Was someone nearby waiting for their return? Was this baby’s mother frantically pacing a tent and wringing her hands in despair? Or had the mother died during a battle and that’s why these men had the child? There were a thousand questions and no answers.

Ruth drew a deep breath as she studied the two men—one obviously dead, the other surely—

No. Ruth felt brief hope. No. The one lying on his face had moved, hadn’t he? She shook the notion away. Maybe she only
wished
he had moved. Then she wouldn’t be alone. His bloodstained shirt was a stark reminder that no one could survive such grave injuries. She stared harder. But there it was again . . . the slight, almost imperceptible movement that meant . . . he was alive?

Ruth carefully set the baby aside and stood up, her eyes fixed on the wounded man. She wondered what, if anything, she should do. She possessed no experience with such dreadful wounds. A few times she had helped Mrs. Galeen dress a cut finger or bandage a scrape, but certainly nothing this serious. Two arrows stuck out of the stranger’s left shoulder blade. Blood pooled near his waist. Perhaps he wouldn’t welcome her help; perhaps she should just leave and allow the poor creature to die in peace.

A man who would steal a child could hardly be worth saving, but the Good Book said that each man was a creation of God and therefore worthy of attention. So this man was actually, in a way, a lost brother. Must she lay claim to him? Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan came to her mind. But the Samaritan had an inn to take the man to; Ruth didn’t even know where she was.

She edged forward, hands clenched at her side. She didn’t have herbs or healing tonics. She couldn’t supply blood. But she could pray with the poor soul—that she could do. Jesus promised the thief on the cross, when the miscreant petitioned the Lord for salvation, that that very day he would be in heaven.

The baby started to cry—a reedy, pitiful appeal. Ruth shushed the child under her breath. “Quiet, baby.
Shush
.”

Overhead a mountain jay circled, its shrill cry blending with the baby’s. Wind whistled through the passes and a threatening sky lowered.

Cautiously approaching the inert man, Ruth knelt in the dirt and laid her hand on his back, wincing as her hand encountered warm, sticky, life-sustaining blood. Her heart went out to the stranger though she knew he must surely be evil. But life was precious—too precious to waste in pursuit of wickedness. She said a silent prayer for his soul.

At her touch, he moaned and she sharply drew back. So he
was
alive!

She sat back on her heels and thought, trying not to look at him. The sight made her squeamish, and she couldn’t afford to faint now. The arrows had to come out. Her stomach heaved at the mere thought of what that would entail. He needed to be rolled to his back, and that wasn’t possible with the arrows still protruding. If he lived—and that was optimistic thinking at this point—it would be more merciful to remove the weapons while he was unconscious.

Stripping out of her coat, she laid it aside and rolled up her sleeves. The baby fretted, needing attention.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” she said, her eyes fixed on the task ahead. Bracing a boot on the injured man’s back, she leaned over and pulled, jerking the first arrow out cleanly.

Sweat pooled on her forehead as she took a step back to view her work. A tiny stream of blood seeped out of the open wound. Not bad—he wouldn’t bleed to death—at least not from that particular wound.

Biting her lower lip, she braced her boot on the man’s right shoulder, then grasped the second arrow in both hands and yanked. The stubborn projectile had imbedded deep. She got a firmer grip and pulled, gritting her teeth as the flint tip refused to budge. Tightening the hold on the arrow’s shaft, she strained, pulling now with all her might.

A scream rent the air as the man drifted close to consciousness.

Sweat rolled from Ruth’s hairline. She bit her lip and pulled harder, the man’s pain barely penetrating her numb senses. The baby started to wail louder. Ruth felt like crying herself, but she couldn’t let up now. She tensed, pulling, ignoring the man’s screams of agony.

“Come on,” she pleaded, then tightened her hold again and pulled with all her strength. Sweat dripped into her eyes now. Only adrenaline kept her focused. The baby’s howls fused with the injured man’s voice. On the fifth try, the stubborn arrow gave way, propelling Ruth backward. She landed hard on her backside, her teeth slamming into her upper lip. She tasted blood. Her head was spinning.

The arrow rested in her hand, its pointed head still attached to the shaft. This was good, she knew. She wouldn’t have to dig any part of the arrow out—she doubted the man could survive such torture.

Getting to her feet, she returned to the sprawled form and bent close, trying to detect life. Surprisingly, his back rose and fell laboriously. The second gaping wound pumped like a geyser. She ripped a strip off his shirttail and carefully packed the most severe wound, oblivious to her burns. It wasn’t an ideal bandage, but she’d done all she could to try and save his life.

Confident she’d done all that she could do, she stepped to the other man and checked for a pulse. The unshaven man looked old enough to be her grandfather, his faded blue eyes staring up at her sightlessly.

“May God have mercy on your soul,” she whispered before closing his lids. Straining, she lifted the limp body to strip off his jacket.

Ruth returned to the squalling infant and tried to quiet it. The child alternately sucked its fist and screamed, thin arms thrashing the air. The baby was hungry. Responsibility felt like a wad of cotton in the back of Ruth’s throat. How would she feed a child? She had no cow—nothing. The wagon had been reduced to smoldering rubble, its contents destroyed.

She picked up the child and walked, jiggling it up and down. Her mind raced. She was suddenly responsible for two lives, and she had no idea how to help either one. The injured man remained facedown in the dirt, as still as lake water. And the baby had worked itself into a hysterical fervor.

Lifting her face toward the sky, she called out, “What do I do? Help me!”

When no answer came readily, Ruth took the child and sat down on a rock. Gently prying the baby’s mouth open, she probed for teeth. Her heart sank when she encountered two rows of smooth pink gums. Well, so much for berries and fish. Her eyes scanned the area. Black smoke was boiling up from the charred, boatlike remains of the wagon. She got up and scavenged through smoldering debris, searching for anything usable. How had the men fed the baby? Perhaps they hadn’t meant to feed it.

Horror made her catch her breath. What if they’d intended to do the child harm? let the poor thing starve to death as some sort of horrible reprisal? She shook the ugly thoughts away.
Concentrate, Ruth. You have to find food for the child.

Hope surfaced as a new thought beset her. Maybe the men planned to take the child to a nearby community. If so, the town couldn’t be far. Relief flooded her and she carefully held the baby, taking care not to cradle it. If both men died, she’d take the baby and ride to the nearest town—settlement—whatever.

Returning to the sprawled form, she bent down and peered at his bloodstained back. She could detect only the faintest rise and fall now, but he was still clinging to life.

Her eyes fell on his boots and she frowned. They looked vaguely familiar—but she supposed all men’s boots were similar. These looked new and made of expensive leather.

Her thoughts turned to the job ahead. She wasn’t strong enough to bury either man by herself, and it wouldn’t seem fitting to bury one and not the other. She would be forced to leave both victims and pray that a stronger stranger would take pity and bury them before the vultures had their day.

Laying the baby on the ground, she turned and took the younger man’s shoulder and gently tugged, trying to roll him to his back. He was so large, his deadweight was impossible for her mismatched strength.

Straddling his shoulder blades, she grasped his right arm and strained, managing to get his lifeless form rocking. She got a firmer grip and rocked until she managed to flip him to his side. She gave him a final heave, and he flopped over on his back. Task accomplished, she paused to take a deep breath and assure the baby she was nearly finished. “Maybe God will even provide a cow along the way,” she encouraged.

She turned, gearing up to put a face to the injured man, when her jaw dropped. For a moment she forgot to breathe. Lying before her, bleeding to death, was none other than Marshall Dylan McCall!

Her breath caught in a short gasp before she fell to her knees and began ripping the hem of her shirt into narrow strips. Dylan!
Dear God, don’t let Dylan die!

The smoking water barrel from the wagon still contained a few precious drops. Ruth dashed the cloth strips into the dampness and rushed back to Dylan.

Rolling the law officer to his side, she packed the damp cloths in the worst wound, all the while incoherently praying that her pitiful effort would be enough.

As she watched life drain out of the impossibly stubborn Marshall McCall, her thoughts screamed for answers.
What
was the marshall doing with an Indian baby and a man old enough to be his grandfather? If the thought of Dylan’s dying wasn’t enough, the realization that she might never know the answer to this crazy puzzle was almost as unsettling.

Chapter Six

An exhausted Ruth studied Dylan, who hadn’t moved in over two hours. Only through God’s grace had she managed to drag him away from the carnage to the small fire she’d built.