Gabriel's Journey by Alison Hart

sir,” I say, in as brave a voice as I can muster.
    â€œI need two men!” Pa calls. “Men who can keep their wits and their balance. Others stay mounted and calm. We don’t need another fall.” The orders echo up and down the path. Seconds later, Black and Crutcher have inched their way to us, lariats in hand. Pa ties the ropes together and then loops one end securely around Sassy’s pommel. My life will be in the hands of three trustworthy men—and one peevish mare.
    I dismount carefully, searching for a bare spot in front of Sassy where I can stand. Pa ties one end of the lariat around my waist and under my arms like a harness. Then he gives me a grave nod. “We’ll play out the rope slowly. Don’t worry if you slip. We’ll keep hold.”
    â€œYes sir.” Taking off my kepi, I hand it to Pa. He tucks it solemnly in his waistband. Rain pelts my bare head.
    No one says that this is foolish—as risky as a night march over the mountains—because we hear Private Murphy again, pleading this time. We know there is no choice.
    â€œGod be with you, Gabriel,” Private Black says.
    Turning, I kneel and begin a backward descent over the trail’s edge, my gloved fingers scrabbling at roots and jutting rocks. Immediately, I begin to slide. The leather soles of my brogans cannot find a hold on the muddy mountainside. Faster and faster I fall, my elbows and knees bouncing against jagged rocks and twisted roots. Fear of the dark below makes my heart pound in my chest. Above me, I hear the grunts of the men as they struggle to hang onto the rope. Finally, just as my heart is about to burst, my shoes hit the solid ground of a rock ledge and I land hard.
    â€œOver here!” Private Murphy calls. I glance left. Thunder rolls across the mountains, and the sky flickers like a candle flame. I see his face a few feet away. He’s hugging the mountainside with one arm, his cheeks white with pain. His other arm hangs limp. His poncho is hooked on an outcropping, which must have kept him from falling farther. “I think my arm’s broken,” he says through gritted teeth.
    â€œI found him!” I yell up to the others. “Keep hold until I can reach him!” Taking a deep breath, I tap my foot to the left, feeling for ground firm enough to support my weight. Slowly, I edge over to Private Murphy. When I reach him, I tell him what we must do. He nods weakly.
    I take off my gloves and thrust them up inside my jacket. With trembling fingers I loosen the rope, slip out of it, and then tie it around his waist and shoulders. When I yank the knots tight, he winces.
    â€œPull him up!” I holler. The rope goes taut. Inch by inch Private Murphy is dragged upward. I unsnag his poncho and try to boost him from below. Soon all I can see are his boots. Then, suddenly, I realize I am utterly alone.
    Thunder rumbles around me. Rain patters against my poncho. Closing my eyes, I press my cheek against the wet rock, afraid to look down.
The Lord must be on the side of the Confederates,
I think,
since he seems to be doing everything in his power to keep us from reaching Saltville.
One foot slips, but I manage to hang on.
If I fall backward off this ledge,
I wonder,
will I plunge forever into nothingness?
    The thought makes me dizzy.
    â€œDear Jesus, my life is in your hands,” I murmur.
    â€œGabriel! Call out your position! We’re dropping the lariat!”
    I holler loud enough to wake bears in their caves. A shower of pebbles rains down, then something whacks me on the top of my head. I reach up and grasp the end of the lariat. The motion makes me sway unsteadily.
    I will myself not to fall. Body trembling with fatigue, I snake the rope around my waist. My fingers are so stiff that the knots don’t come easy. Finally, it’s secure. Raising both arms, I grip the rope and yell, “Ready!”
    Bit by bit, the lariat lifts me until my feet no longer