Captured

It was after they crossed the Republican River that the boy thought of her. As he herded the stolen stock he wondered which animals belonged to her family – was it the speckled ox or the mule with the dark mane? Would she reach Oregon now?
He pondered these questions without guilt. Cutter was right: The pilgrims encouraged their own bad luck by not being prepared.

But the boy felt reckless. He now had a weapon and a decent horse. Perhaps when they sold the stock he’d strike out on his own, maybe search her out, take her with him. If her father said anything, the boy would do for him just like he had for the slavers at Wilson’s.

They trailed the south bank of the Republican until mid afternoon, when the country ahead rose and broke into steep, cedar-filled ravines. They recrossed the river and moved the stock north, past the flood plain to rolling, buffalo grass tableland dotted with clumps of soapweed, keeping the river’s tree-lined course in sight. They made camp in a full red sunset, with buffalo sign all around them.

The next morning Jumper was gone. He took with him two mules, a long gun and a flask of rye whiskey. Buff’ler roast for supper, I think, said Cutter. Goddamn Injuns go stale on beans and salt pork over time.
I just hope he don’t get too drunk, said Wilson. Won’t butcher or pack it back worth a damn. Meat’ll be flyblown and look like dogs chewed it.
After a cold breakfast Cutter sent the boy down to the river to fill canteens while he, Wilson and Cole broke camp and got the stock moving.

The day had dawned clear, hot and humid; mosquitoes and gnats rose in clouds from the willow thickets as the boy threaded his way to the river’s edge. He buttoned his shirt collar and hunched his shoulders, fanning the worn straw hat he’d taken from one of the emigrant wagons. He dismounted and searched the steep bank for a place to wade; perhaps the insects would be less annoying if he stood in the river.

He discovered a sloping access to the water and removed his worn brogans and socks and rolled his trousers up to his knees. He stepped into the slow green current carefully, moving out into the river until the high-pitched hum of the mosquitoes disappeared. He filled a canteen and had a second half full when he looked up and scanned the river in both directions.

There was an Indian standing on the bank fifty paces downstream. He had a gray wool army blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His face was blackened around his mouth and eyes, and the vermilion he wore in the part in his hair made him look as though someone had attempted to saw his skull in two. At first the boy thought it was Jumper, but he quickly realized that this man was too tall and thin, his hair too long.
The Indian was motionless, watching, which delayed the boy’s notice of the weapon he held in his right hand - a flat, three-foot long piece of wood with a tapered grip and two six-inch iron blades protruding from the broad, killing end. The boy dropped the canteen he was filling, feeling a sharp chill as he realized his pepperbox pistol was still in the warbag that hung from his saddle.

He sucked a deep breath and without taking his eyes from the Indian began moving slowly toward the bank. An experienced frontiersman would have chosen the river; a man diving and swimming underwater presented a smaller target, and the water’s surface might deflect a ball or arrow fired from such a shallow angle.

But the boy was not experienced; he focused on the Indian as he moved up on the bank. The Indian did not move, and when the boy turned to run he understood why: Before him was a second Indian; in his upraised hand he held a stone-headed club. He stepped quickly toward the boy, bringing the club down as he came, and in the split second before he was swallowed in blackness, the boy thought about the face of the young prison guard whose pistol had misfired.