Fretting, his wife hurried off.
Lark wrapped Del’s kerchief around the wound and cinched her belt tight above it.
Otis swore. “Tryin’ to cut my leg off?”
“Trying to save it.”
The doctor arrived, and Lark stepped back as Martin ran up too.
“Quick thinking with the tourniquet,” Dr. Brownsville said after a brief examination. “Let’s move him over by the fire, and I need light, several lanterns at least. The wound will need stitching once we stanch the bleeding. Mrs. Bane, do you have flour?”
The small woman nodded and hurried to her stores.
“And Clark—” the doctor hesitated— “might your sister Forsythia be willing to assist me? She was very skilled with Mrs. Durham.”
Lark nodded. “I’m sure she will.”
Together she, the doctor, and Martin hauled Otis onto a blanket by the fire, him fussing and cussing all the way. Then Lark fetched Forsythia while Martin collected lanterns.
“Good.” The doctor nodded, satisfied when they had assembled four lanterns around the leg. “Now, Miss Nielsen, if you will help me clean the wound, please. I’m going to loosen the belt.”
Blood spurted as soon as he removed the tourniquet, but he and Forsythia worked well together, quickly cleaning the wound and stanching it with flour despite Otis’s groans and protests.
“Now, Mr. Bane, we’re going to stitch up your leg. Clark, would you help Forsythia hold him steady?”
“Tarnation. Can’t a man get a lick of whiskey first?” Otis growled.
The doctor sighed. “There’s some medicinal brandy in my bag, Miss Nielsen.”
Despite the swig of liquor Forsythia brought, Otis hollered plenty through the stitching. Practically lying on the man’s ankles to hold him down, Lark shook her head. Some men could be such babies. She guessed that was why God gave childbearing to the womenfolk.
“Quite a character, isn’t he?” Martin said as they parted ways once Otis was snoring in his wagon.
“That’s one way to put it. ’Night.” Lark nodded, and she and Forsythia headed for their bedrolls.
“Never a dull moment, is there?” Forsythia yawned and slid her arm through Lark’s. “Maybe tonight we’ll actually get a decent night’s sleep.”
If only.
The next day, after checking the oxen carefully for any tender spots, Lark took a turn driving the Durhams’ team. They seemed calmer, adjusting to the new routine, new masters. Thank you, Lord. She drew a long breath, trying not to inhale too much dust.
“Indians!” The cry passed along the wagon train. “Behind us.”
Lark twisted her head to look. Sure enough, a small group of figures on horseback had just crested a grassy knoll behind them. Her scalp prickled, but more from fear or intrigue, she wasn’t certain.
“What do we do?” Forsythia called from driving their own oxen.
“Wait for Mr. Hayes, I guess.” Lark looked back again. Already the riders were closer.
A few moments later, Mr. Hayes came riding up. “Circle the wagons.”
Her heart pounding, Lark brought the oxen around as Forsythia did the same with her spans. Quicker than she would have thought, the wagons formed a passable circle. She guessed their practice those early nights was paying off.
The Indian riders had come within a hundred yards now. A dozen men, some shirtless, some wearing woven hunting shirts like Little Bear’s. Most had shaved heads with a slicked-back scalp lock and a few feathers.
With her sisters and Robbie tucked safely into their wagon, Lark gathered with the other men, rifle in hand.
“Get a look at them,” John Manning said. “Would make good target practice.” He cocked his firearm and sighted through it.
“Enough. There’ll be no shooting today, please God and if I can help it.” Hayes leveled a glare at Manning, who lowered his rifle. “They look to be Pawnee. Little Bear is going to talk to them. Most likely they just want food or to trade.”
“Trade for what? Our women?” Grumbling and murmurs spread among the men till another glare from the wagon master made them subside.
Hayes nodded at Little Bear, who approached the group of riders. He communicated with them in a mixture of spoken and sign language, from what Lark could tell. The riders consulted with each other, then handed something to Little Bear. He strode back to the circle of wagons.
“They want food. And guns.”
“Guns? They think we’ll arm them just so they can shoot us and take our scalps?” The murmuring rose louder this time.
“And what food? We need all the provisions we got just to make it to Oregon.”
Little Bear held up his hand. “In return, they offer these.” He held out an elaborate belt of intricate red-and-blue beadwork.
“What are we supposed to do with that?” That was Manning again.
“Can’t eat fancy beadwork.”
Hayes raised both hands for silence. “We’ve got to give them something, folks. We want to keep this friendly.”
“They also like that mare.” Little Bear inclined his head at Starbright.
“No.” Lark’s throat squeezed. Please, Lord. “She’s the only horse we’ve got. Won’t they take anything else?”
Little Bear met her gaze, then nodded. “I will speak to them.”
“All right, what provisions can we spare?” Hayes surveyed the group. “Anyone got an extra sack of flour? Side of bacon? Milk cow?”
Some men averted their eyes. Others reluctantly headed to their wagons.
Lark hurried to her family. Between their wagon and the Durhams’, surely there was something they could spare. Del helped her dig through their stores. They found a bag of beans in the Durhams’ wagon, and a sack of cornmeal and one of salt from theirs.
She hauled the goods over and added them to the growing pile outside the circle of wagons. Not every family had contributed, but hopefully it would do.
Little Bear approached the group again. The men’s voices rose louder this time, and by their gestures, they weren’t happy.
Lark’s stomach tensed. She tightened her grip on her rifle. Please, Lord, let this not end in bloodshed. On either side.
Their Pawnee guide came back. “They still want a horse. Or a cow.”
The
