Wind Walker (42 page)

“Gran’papa?”

“Y-you be quiet now, Lucas,” he whispered as he saw Roman and Amanda running their way with Magpie and Waits-by-the-Water right behind them. Farther back came Toote and Shad, Lemuel and Leah too. And from other directions came what seemed like a hundred other nameless, frightened folks.

“I be real quiet for you,” Lucas whispered back from his dry, cracked lips. “Gran’papa make it better now.”

“Yes, L-Lucas,” he vowed as he stuffed one end of that narrow strip of leather under the bony leg, dragged up both ends together, then looped them in a knot. Now he pulled for all he was worth on those ends. “Jackrabbit—get me a stick.”

“How big, Popo?”

“Big as a pin to close your mother’s lodge cover.”

Sweeping up his father’s knife, Jackrabbit hacked off a short branch from a nearby sage, no more than the diameter of his stubby little thumb. As he knelt again beside Lucas’s
leg, Titus said, “Lay it on the knot. No, middle. That’s good. Hol’t it there, son. Keep hol’tin’ it.”

Quickly he flipped over the long ends of the leather strip and made a second knot atop the small stick. Then a third as Amanda came dashing up. She was about to spill toward Lucas when Roman caught her, held his wife back. Titus gazed up at his daughter, reading the fear on her face, not having seen her cheeks so bloodless since that moment she had plunged a pitchfork into a man intending to murder her father in Troost’s St. Louis livery.

“Pa?” she questioned, weak and winded like a frail animal as Roman held her up, kept her from collapsing.

That’s when Bass moved his gaze to his son-in-law’s face—reading the stoic pain registered there. The iron set of a man’s jaw when that man knows if he doesn’t clamp his teeth tight his chin is going to quiver and he will betray himself … when a man realizes he must be strong for everyone else even though his own heart is already crying out in bitter anguish. In Roman Burwell’s eyes showed the despair of a man who already knew.

“Snakebite, Amanda,” Titus declared.

Burwell cleared his throat and asked in a whisper, “Rattler?”

When Scratch nodded, Amanda stifled a shrill sob and twisted about to bury her face in Roman’s chest.

Titus looked down at the child as he stuffed his knife back into its scabbard with one hand, slowly continuing to twist the stick with the fingers of his left hand, tightening, tightening, tightening the tourniquet.

“Lucas,” he said quietly, bending low so his face was just inches from the boy’s, “we’re gonna take you back to the wagon, son.”

“Get me better there, Gran’papa?”

God, how he wanted to lie to the child, to tell Lucas everything the boy wanted to hear, deserved to hear … but instead he said only, “Jackrabbit, you help me help Lucas now.”

“Yes.”

“Take hold of the stick from me,” and he waited while his son seized hold of the stick. “Don’t let go of it. Keep hold of it—I’m gonna pick Lucas up.”

“I-I can help you, Titus,” Roman offered.

“No,” and he shook his long hair. “You keep hol’t of Amanda. Just keep hol’tin’ her real tight too.”

Once Jackrabbit had the ends of the stick steadied in his two tiny hands, Scratch quickly stuffed both his arms under the child. Raising first his narrow shoulders, Lucas’s long, corn-silk hair spilling over Bass’s forearm, Titus next raised the knees, then got his own legs under him and stood. Digger was the more inquisitive of the two dogs, rising on his back legs to momentarily sniff at the boy. He turned and slowly started through the sagebrush as the crowd peeled back from his path, he and everyone in that crowd on either side of him moving slow as a death march, both his loyal dogs easing along at his heels. Bending his face over the child’s, Bass was constantly vigilant that he not let the sun’s intense afternoon light touch the boy’s face.

His left moccasin finally worked its way off and he began to walk through the sage across that rough, rocky ground with one bare foot. Waits immediately scooped up the moccasin and dashed in front of him, holding up the limp moccasin and quickly pointing at his foot. He shook his head and resolutely continued for the wagon. On both sides of him the crowd quietly murmured in wonder and fear, explaining to one another what they heard had happened; in that way a story was told in but a matter of a half dozen compelling words from one mouth to the other, to another, then to the next, on and on as they shuffled through the sagebrush on either side of him and the boy’s gray-faced parents.

He could hear Amanda sobbing behind him, could make out Roman talking softly to her as he continued to clutch his big arm around her quivering shoulders, holding her up, helping her walk, getting her back to the wagon for the sake of their youngest. Eight-year-old Annie suddenly pushed through the crowd and stopped right in front of her grandfather, staring at her little brother Lucas, her eyes never so
wide. She stood rooted to the spot as Titus approached. He realized she needed something to do.

“Annie, go lay some more wood on the fire for me.”

In an instant the child had whirled about on her heels and darted back through the edge of the throng that made way for her. Titus took a deep gasp as his bare foot found some tiny cactus hidden among the dried bunchgrass. And kept walking with that boy cradled in his arms.

“Waits,” he called out to his wife in Crow. “Gather your medicines.”

She stared into his eyes a long moment, then understood. Her eyes fell to the ground.

“Everything you have,” he choked in his wife’s tongue as she turned aside. “We’ll need it all … so we can do everything we can.”

“Is there anything we can do for the boy?” Titus whispered to his wife as he crouched at the fire beside her, their faces almost touching as they rummaged through Waits-by-the-Water’s rawhide pouch filled with small skin sacks of leaves and roots, powders and mosses, bark and crushed insects too. All of it they spread out on a piece of old blanket between them, then waited for the water to come to a boil.

She looked into his eyes, and he already knew.

“There is nothing I know of that has enough power to kill the snake’s spirit,” she confessed in a barely audible whisper, even though she spoke in Crow.

“Except the First Maker,” he whimpered as Shad came up to kneel beside him.

Sweete glanced at his wife and said, “Toote seen a lot of rattler bites.”

“And?”

Shad’s face was long and drawn as he answered, “But none of ’em ever made it, Scratch.” Then Sweete laid his trunk of an arm across the thin man’s shoulders. “You done all you could. You sucked him, you burned them bites too. There ain’t nothing but the leaves and roots and a medicine man’s prayin’ left to do now.”

How he wanted to let go so his own shoulders could quake with frustration, with utter fear, even some building anger too. But instead he turned and peered into the face of his old friend. “Ask Shell Woman to bring over anything she’s got what’ll help us make the boy feel a li’l easier. I knowed her medeecin saved your arm, likely it saved your life. I can only pray Shell Woman’s power gonna save that li’l boy’s life too.”

Without a word, Shadrach stood and shuffled off. Behind him Titus could hear Amanda sobbing again as her feet dragged across the sandy soil. Other folks were murmuring around them too, everyone staying back aways, keeping a respectful distance from the wagon and the wide awning Roman had just finished stringing up between the top of the wagon bed and a pair of poles when Magpie came running with her terrible news.

Titus had Magpie and Leah pull out the canvas bedsacks and comforters from the back of the wagon as they approached, instructing the girls to make Lucas as soft a pallet as they could in the shade beneath that awning on the lee side of the wagon near the fire. It was where the children and the two dogs always chose to sleep each night on the trail. This is where Digger and Ghost now dropped to their bellies and scooted across the sandy ground to keep a watch on the humans. And here too Scratch slowly settled with the tiny body in his arms, Jackrabbit still clutching that tourniquet stick with both his tiny brown hands.

“Amanda,” he had called to her in a quiet voice as Roman brought her up to the awning, the crowd stopping several yards behind mother and father. “You need to be strong, woman. This boy needs a-strong mother right now.”

She had nodded.

“Can you be strong for my Lucas boy?”

Her chin quivered so as she had nodded again, then slowly peeled herself away from Roman.

“C’mere an’ sit beside me, daughter,” he asked.

Once she had settled right beside her father, Amanda took
a long, deep breath, then leaned over and wrapped her arms around Lucas, slowly taking him from Bass’s embrace. Into Jackrabbit’s ear he had whispered, “Your hands tired?”

The boy shook his head, and kept holding that stick with white-knuckled intensity, his big black eyes pooling, tears muddying his cheeks.

“Amanda,” Titus, said softly as he shifted onto his knees over her and Lucas, reaching back for his skinning knife, “I’m gonna have to cut ’im a li’l—”

“Cut him?”

“On them bites.”

For a few long moments she had stared at those two punctures high on the side of Lucas’s right calf. “Will it hurt him?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think he’s gonna feel nothin’ much from here on out now.”

After she had nodded reluctantly, he clutched the sharp blade down near the point and started work on those two swollen black holes, saying, “I gotta suck out what I can.”

Gently, carefully, slowly he had sliced down with the tip of the blade through each of the holes, making the incisions long enough below each hole to account for the downward curve of the rattler’s fangs as they struck the innocent boy at play. The skin bled freely, instantly, the flesh so taut, swollen, and already hot to the touch.

Lucas groaned.

“Stop, Pa!”

Softly Bass said to her, “I ain’t hurtin’ him. It’s the p’isen, Amanda. That’s what pains him so.”

Gently he squeezed the two wounds between a thumb and finger, swiped off the blood with the side of his hand, then bent over the leg there below the narrow leather whang he had fashioned into a tourniquet. Continuing the pressure on the wounds with his thumb and finger, Titus formed a seal with his lips and sucked. When he sensed the salty taste on his tongue, the warmth against his lips, Scratch pulled back, turned his head, and spat onto the ground. Again and again he bent, sucked, and spat. Until he figured that he had done all the good he could.

“You get it all, Pa?” she asked as he leaned back after that last time and dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth.

“Dunno.”

Roman knelt before him. Looked down at the boy’s leg. Then peered into Bass’s eyes with a plea. “Can we burn him?”

“Burn him?”

Burwell swallowed and said, “I see’d ’em do it with bad wounds back in Missouri. Put a hot poker on it, burn it so it don’t bleed no more.”

“It ain’t that he’s bleedin’, Roman,” Scratch explained, watching the realization of it strike the man doubly hard. Then he thought. “But we can do something else to burn him. Flea, get me my powder horn.”

When the boy had returned with his father’s shooting pouch and horn, Titus pulled the stopper and poured a little powder into the two puncture wounds and the cuts. As he gently kneaded the powder down into the bloody, oozing tissues, he again instructed Flea, “Son, get me a small twig from the fire.”

“Fire on it?” he asked his father in Crow.

“Yes, a good ember on the end of it.”

Roman inched back when Flea brought the tiny branch, a small flame licking at the end. Holding his breath, Titus touched the ember to the first of the wounds. A sudden twist of gray smoke spurted from the swollen flesh as Lucas twisted violently in his mother’s arms.

“Hold ’im still best you can, Amanda,” he ordered as he pressed down on the boy’s ankle with his empty hand, then gently laid the twig against the second wound.