The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) by Laurie Kingery Page B

make would make him even more vulnerable should there be any Indians hiding amidst the rocks, brush and mesquite.
    Lord, protect me and help the boy understand, he prayed inwardly, and knelt on the ground, bowing his head and closing his eyes. With one hand he held up the Cross.
    After an endless minute, he opened his eyes.
    Gil couldn’t tell for sure if the boy looked less on his guard, but maybe...
    Perhaps introductions would help. “Gil,” he said, pointing to himself.
    “G-Geel,” the boy mimicked. He turned his index finger toward himself and spoke, but the Comanche words were unintelligible to Gil.
    “I’ll just call you Tad,” Gil said, making himself smile. “Tad,” he repeated, pointing at the boy.
    The Indian boy wrinkled his nose, then shrugged. Apparently what the white man chose to call him didn’t matter.
    Turning his back and praying the boy didn’t have a hidden tomahawk to throw, he walked slowly toward the Indian pony, who pricked his ears, but watched him come without alarm.
    He took hold of the rawhide-thong bride and began to lead the pony forward. The boy let loose a spate of Comanche words. He pointed repeatedly to the pony, his eyes showing a different sort of distress.
    Gil halted, looked back at the beast but couldn’t understand. Watching the pony this time, he led him forward a few paces, and then he saw that the pony was favoring his off front leg. Every time the pony put weight on it, his head bobbed downward.
    The pony was lame. Had he put his foreleg in a hole, causing the boy’s fall? It was clear that he couldn’t bear the boy’s weight. Gil would have to put the boy up on his bay and ride behind him, letting the pony follow if he was able. Gil let go of the pinto’s bridle, then led his own horse forward.
    If only he had something flat to make a splint to stabilize the leg, but he didn’t. There wasn’t even a branch on any of the short, shrubby trees big enough for his purposes. He would have to pray the boy wouldn’t pass out from the pain that moving his broken leg would cause. He prayed the bone wasn’t protruding through the skin—he hadn’t wanted to alarm the boy by cutting open the leggings to see.
    He held out his arms, miming that he was going to lift the Comanche boy up onto the horse.
    The boy nodded.
    Gil steeled himself, then scooped his hands up under the boy, wincing inside as the boy gasped in pain. His shiny long black hair smelled of something pungent—hadn’t Gil heard Indians used bear grease on their hair? As he lifted the boy closer to his bay, the horse snorted and stamped, his nostrils flaring at the scary scent. Gil prayed he wouldn’t bolt, but his hands were full, so he couldn’t grab the reins.
    “ Steady, fellow,” Gil soothed. “The boy isn’t part bear, he just smells like one.”
    The gelding stood obediently, although he rolled his eyes to indicate his displeasure.
    As soon as Gil deposited the boy onto the saddle, Gil grabbed hold of the reins. Even though the little Comanche had his teeth clamped on his underlip to keep from crying out, Gil didn’t trust him not to try to run off with his horse. The Comanches were horse thieves par excellence after all.
    After picking up his Bible and stowing it in the saddle bag, Gil mounted behind “Tad.” Then he wondered what he was going to do with the boy. His first instinct had been to return to town, but now he realized the impracticality of that. As kind as most of the townspeople were, how would they feel about the presence of a despised Indian in their midst? He didn’t doubt that Nolan Walker would be willing to doctor him, but what if Tad himself thought he was a captive, and fought to free himself, possibly worsening his injuries, or hurting someone else during an attempt to escape? Or the boy’s tribe might come looking for him. Gil couldn’t bring danger down on the Walker family. The boy’s tribe might misinterpret the situation and take their wrath out on Walker and