The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) by Laurie Kingery Page A
Authors: Laurie Kingery
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Gil approach. Was it wild? No, it had a primitive sort of bridle with a feather dangling from the bottom of the nose piece. An Indian pony.
Gil froze. Had the groan been uttered by an injured Comanche? Or worse, one who lay in wait, planning to lure him closer in hope of taking his scalp? All the stories he’d ever heard of Comanche atrocities flooded his brain. He had no weapon, not even so much as a pocketknife. Perhaps if he backed up now, he could reach his horse before the unseen savage jumped him. Was the Indian even now poised to spring out at him or onto him from the rocks above?
Lord, save me!
There were plenty of loose rocks on the ground. Perhaps he could hurl one at the red man, disabling his attacker long enough so Gil could reach his own mount and escape.
Then he heard the groan again. This time it was less muffled, as if the person groaning could no longer fully stifle it.
And it didn’t sound like a man’s cry—it sounded younger. And full of real pain.
If someone was injured, he had a duty to try to help.
Inching warily forward, listening for any hint of movement, Gil peered into the shadowy midst of the cedar brake, and spotted an Indian boy lying on his back, dressed in buckskin leggings, breechclout and moccasins.
At the sight of Gil, the boy yelped in fear, and in a motion too quick for Gil’s eyes to follow, yanked a knife from his belt and threw it at Gil.
The hastily thrown knife went wide to Gil’s left, and clattered against a rock, and Gil picked it up to prevent the boy from using it on him again. But it seemed the movement had cost the young Indian, for he clenched his teeth over a moan and seized his lower leg with both hands. He kept his eyes open and trained on Gil, obviously fearing attack.
He was injured. Gil could see now that the leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Now that he was closer, Gil spotted a scraped cheek and hand, and a forehead beaded with sweat. Had he fallen from his horse? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Gil had to help him. But first he had to convince the boy, who was perhaps eight, that he meant him no harm. The boy’s eyes remained wide, his hands curled into fists. He was ready to fight to the death.
“Easy, boy, I mean you no harm,” Gil said. He threw the knife some distance away, then held both hands palm up. Would the Indian understand the gesture, or even if he did, would he believe Gil’s sincerity?
The boy’s eyes remained glowing black coals in the shade of the trees. He remained poised to defend himself, even though the tense way he held himself obviously cost him more pain.
How was he going to convince the boy he only wanted to help? The boy didn’t understand English, and he sure didn’t know any Comanche, nor even the sign language some men who’d dealt with Indians knew.
Lord, if You’d like to give me the gift of tongues right now, I’d appreciate it. Just one tongue—Comanche—that’s all I really need.
He opened his mouth, but no Comanche words poured forth.
Did the young Comanche know about the symbol of the Cross? Gil pulled on the silver chain beneath his shirt. His mother had given him that necklace years ago, and he had never stopped wearing it. He held out the Cross pendant, showing it to the boy. The little Indian’s face remained suspicious.
Gil pointed to himself, then placed his hands together and bowed his head in an attitude of prayer.
Something flickered in the boy’s eyes, but Gil could not be sure it betokened understanding.
Silence stretched between them. This wasn’t getting anywhere. He could ride off, and hope the boy was found by his people. But the Indian was obviously in pain despite his attempts to put on a brave front, and what if his people didn’t find him before some predator did? Coyotes roamed these hills, and worse, cougars.
Gil sighed. He could not abandon the boy, even if it meant fighting him to help him.
He looked around and saw no one. Yet the gesture he was about to
Gil froze. Had the groan been uttered by an injured Comanche? Or worse, one who lay in wait, planning to lure him closer in hope of taking his scalp? All the stories he’d ever heard of Comanche atrocities flooded his brain. He had no weapon, not even so much as a pocketknife. Perhaps if he backed up now, he could reach his horse before the unseen savage jumped him. Was the Indian even now poised to spring out at him or onto him from the rocks above?
Lord, save me!
There were plenty of loose rocks on the ground. Perhaps he could hurl one at the red man, disabling his attacker long enough so Gil could reach his own mount and escape.
Then he heard the groan again. This time it was less muffled, as if the person groaning could no longer fully stifle it.
And it didn’t sound like a man’s cry—it sounded younger. And full of real pain.
If someone was injured, he had a duty to try to help.
Inching warily forward, listening for any hint of movement, Gil peered into the shadowy midst of the cedar brake, and spotted an Indian boy lying on his back, dressed in buckskin leggings, breechclout and moccasins.
At the sight of Gil, the boy yelped in fear, and in a motion too quick for Gil’s eyes to follow, yanked a knife from his belt and threw it at Gil.
The hastily thrown knife went wide to Gil’s left, and clattered against a rock, and Gil picked it up to prevent the boy from using it on him again. But it seemed the movement had cost the young Indian, for he clenched his teeth over a moan and seized his lower leg with both hands. He kept his eyes open and trained on Gil, obviously fearing attack.
He was injured. Gil could see now that the leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Now that he was closer, Gil spotted a scraped cheek and hand, and a forehead beaded with sweat. Had he fallen from his horse? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Gil had to help him. But first he had to convince the boy, who was perhaps eight, that he meant him no harm. The boy’s eyes remained wide, his hands curled into fists. He was ready to fight to the death.
“Easy, boy, I mean you no harm,” Gil said. He threw the knife some distance away, then held both hands palm up. Would the Indian understand the gesture, or even if he did, would he believe Gil’s sincerity?
The boy’s eyes remained glowing black coals in the shade of the trees. He remained poised to defend himself, even though the tense way he held himself obviously cost him more pain.
How was he going to convince the boy he only wanted to help? The boy didn’t understand English, and he sure didn’t know any Comanche, nor even the sign language some men who’d dealt with Indians knew.
Lord, if You’d like to give me the gift of tongues right now, I’d appreciate it. Just one tongue—Comanche—that’s all I really need.
He opened his mouth, but no Comanche words poured forth.
Did the young Comanche know about the symbol of the Cross? Gil pulled on the silver chain beneath his shirt. His mother had given him that necklace years ago, and he had never stopped wearing it. He held out the Cross pendant, showing it to the boy. The little Indian’s face remained suspicious.
Gil pointed to himself, then placed his hands together and bowed his head in an attitude of prayer.
Something flickered in the boy’s eyes, but Gil could not be sure it betokened understanding.
Silence stretched between them. This wasn’t getting anywhere. He could ride off, and hope the boy was found by his people. But the Indian was obviously in pain despite his attempts to put on a brave front, and what if his people didn’t find him before some predator did? Coyotes roamed these hills, and worse, cougars.
Gil sighed. He could not abandon the boy, even if it meant fighting him to help him.
He looked around and saw no one. Yet the gesture he was about to
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