If I had spent more time at home, I might know the answer.
It must have something to do with activating the brooch.
JC sat back on the ground and took the first deep breath since he arrived in the past while he thought back to Aunt Penny’s experience in 1814 New Orleans. Even with a Council member watching out for her, Penny still had a horrible time of it.
What does that mean for Ensley?
He stood and stretched, then walked through the campsite again, noticing even more details, including a birch tree with three squares of bark stripped off. The bark harvest was recent, maybe three or four days ago.
Birchbark was malleable and used throughout the centuries to make dozens of things like containers, canoe coverings, fishing gear. If Ensley stripped bark from this tree, what’d she make? Containers? Probably, but where’d she get a knife? He thought back to the previous campsite he found. There were shards of obsidian.
Slices of obsidian were sharp enough to use for a knife.
She had the means to build a fire, containers, and a knife. But if she was only eating fish and walking a dozen miles a day, she wouldn’t last long. He picked up some plant stems and sniffed them. Dandelions. The plant was a good source of protein, and she could boil the roots for coffee, but she still didn’t have any complex carbs.
He needed to find her—quickly. She was probably about three days ahead of him by now.
On horseback, he could reach her within a day. He swung his leg up over the saddle. “Come on, Mercury. Let’s go find her.”
He settled Mercury into a ground-eating lope, determined not to sleep until he had her safely at his side.
15
The Badlands (1885)—Ensley
The next morning, she filled both birchbark bowls with water and covered them with the lids she made last night. She’d be walking a day and a half at least, without access to water other than what she could carry. But if she rationed it, it should last until she reached the Little Missouri River.
She set off on a winding path across the plains with her eyes trained on a row of buttes. Once she reached that landmark, she set another one, which took her through forests and around hills. She had to stop often and reorient herself.
There was no guarantee she was going straight north, but she’d eventually reach the river, even if she went northeast or northwest.
By evening, her water bowls were half empty or half full, depending on how she felt at that moment. And her stomach growled like a lion in the zoo at mealtime.
Half full. She still had hope.
She made camp at the base of the buttes she’d used as a landmark. The lack of carbs in her diet was taking its toll, and her hip was killing her. She was tired, filthy, hungry, and in pain. She’d give all her diamond-stud buttons for a cup of dandelion coffee, but she didn’t want to use her water. It had to last another day.
After a fitful night’s sleep, she gathered her few belongings and headed northeast again. The ground was rough, hilly, and dry, and it took a further toll on her hip. Black-tailed prairie dogs and a mule deer watched her go by, and a couple of hawks, screaming kee-eeee-arr flew overhead. Their presence made her feel not so alone in the vast landscape that extended miles into the horizon.
By midday, both water containers were empty, but she kept going. And as fatigue set in and her throat got drier, fear rolled over her in waves, and she second-guessed her decision to come this way. If she only knew how much farther she had to go. By late afternoon, she had nothing left in her tank.
She dropped to the ground. “I’m done.”
Get up.
She shook her head. “Can’t. I’m done.”
Get up.
“Go away and leave me alone.”
Get up, or you will die.
“I don’t care. Go away.”
Get up.
He—whoever he was—wasn’t going to leave her alone. She reached for her walking stick and held on to it as she struggled to her feet. She managed to stagger several yards before dropping to her knees again. Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t work up enough saliva to spit.
If she didn’t get up now, she’d die.
Get up.
“No.”
Get up.
She shook her head. She just didn’t have the strength to go on. In defeat, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the darkness.
16
The Badlands (1885)—Ensley
The sound of rushing water brought Ensley to semiconsciousness, and the faint grayish light seeped through her eyelids. It was a blissful, sleep-fogged moment until she remembered…
Thirsty… Can’t go on…
And then her blue-tatted rescuer carried her across the Badlands, and she slept deeply for the first time since coming out of the fog.
There was no tossing about, no beasts roaming her uneasy dreams, no sore hip, no tired feet, just rejuvenating sleep, almost like swinging in a hammock on a breezy spring afternoon.
She eased up out of her bough-lined bed and immediately sensed she was alone. A quick shiver slid down her spine. He was gone again, but this time he left a gift. Beside her on the ground was a beautiful, hand-tooled leather costrel with a wooden stopper and rawhide strap. It didn’t look like any Native American water bottle she’d ever seen. The symbols appeared much older, possibly from the Greco-Roman world.
Whoever her rescuer was, he must be watching and waiting until she reached a point of desperation before stepping in to help her out and performing a miracle. If he was in the miracle-making business, maybe he could send her home. Was he a shaman or something? If so, he must live on the Fort Berthold Reservation. But if he did, why didn’t he
