Roy Dudley Summer Waters Page 1

CHAPTER 1

   The golden haze of autumn lay along the horizon, softening the land and the sky, painting the west in vivid hues of lavender and scarlet. Dressed in cloaks of fall, the trees along the Missouri River ranged from the yellow of the willows and maples to the red of the oaks and sumac, to the purple of the gums. The tops of the river bluffs were a riot of color, brought into sharp contrast by the long shadows and highlights of the setting sun.

   Indian summer of the year 1803 held the country in benevolent thralldom, a last taste of lazy days before the onslaught of wintry weather. The smoke from the scattered settlers' cabins rose straight into the air and hung high overhead, scarcely moving. A quiet somnolence pervaded the country, a silent surrender to the forces of nature.

   High on the eastern river bluffs, Sean O'Connell was one with the land. Sitting with one leg carelessly dangling over the edge, the other propped under his chin, he viewed the array of color with a mixture of appreciation and sad acceptance. The dying of the leaves ended his short vacation after the fall harvest and marked the beginning of school for his sister, Peggy.

   Since he neared his fourteenth birthday, he had finished his brief schooling and was free to seek work around the settlement. His father might allow him to start his own trap line. God knew they could use the money. Then too, he might find some odd jobs. He came to his feet and picked up a squirrel rifle taller than him.

   His absence of half a day and no squirrels would annoy his father, and he would accuse Sean of sitting on a rock dreaming. The accusation would not be far wrong, Sean admitted. It would be dark before he reached home. His mother would be worried and his father angry. He sighed and took a final look around, loath to leave.

   A flash on the water from far upstream catching his eye, he paused to study the river, his freckled face intent. Eight boats appeared slowly around a bend in the river, their paddles flashing in the dying sun. The boats were large, probably Indian dugouts. He eased himself slowly into the shadows until tree trunks shielded him. Any fast motion would catch the eye.

   The canoes held a full cargo of Indians and supplies, plus women and children. From this, he judged the Indians wouldn't be troublesome, them traveling with their families this late in the season. Their own problems of supply, defense and family would preclude any raiding of settlements. He relaxed. There was little danger--unless you were off by yourself, he amended.

   He suspected the Indians would camp on Pelican Island for the night, thus denying him his usual stopping point in his swim across the river. He glanced at the gathering shadows and sighed. Although darkness was less than an hour away, a full moon hung high, making for an easier crossing.

   Not far downstream was a more doubtful crossing, one with a long swim and no rest. It wouldn't be the first time he had tried it, but it would be the first time in the darkness. He eased farther into the trees for better concealment, watching the dugouts curiously.

   The Indians had beached the canoes on the island below him, and all was orderly confusion. In a surprisingly short time, cook fires were ablaze, camp set up, the canoes unloaded and all in readiness for the night.

   As he watched, dusk grayed the island and details faded into obscurity. He knew he should leave, but tarried, watching the Indians prepare for the night. He had counted forty-nine Indians in eight dugouts.

   One was a prisoner, a girl with her hands tied before her. He watched her, touched despite himself, something about her defiant stance awakening a sense of pity. Again he studied the camp thoroughly, but his glance returned to her. Why should he care what Indians did to other Indians? They made a profession of stealing the women and horses of other tribes. After a gloomy glance at the dark river, he glanced again at the lonely figure before turning away and melting silently into the trees.

   He took his time in the moonlit darkness, following a game trail along the top of the bluff. Trees sheltered him from sight by the Indians, but also blocked out most of the feeble light of the moon too.

   However, he needed little light, the trail one he used frequently. It wended its way for miles atop the cliffs, always near the edge of the bluffs, weaving between trees and rocks, intersecting other trails, dipping and twisting.

   He soon came to a dip in the trail that he recognized. A fault in the bluff had allowed erosion to wear away the soil and softer rock.

   Here there was a fifty foot climb down the bluff to a ledge of rock near water level.

   Although twilight faded, the full moon seemingly waxed brighter, casting a ghostly radiance across the bluffs. He paused at the top of the fault to sling his rifle, using a crude sling of his own devising. He needed both hands for the climb. With the aid of a bright moon, he would be visible from across the river, but a slight bend in the river hid him from the Indians. The Indians didn't worry him much. They usually stayed close to their fires at night, and it was unlikely they would be on the opposite bank.

   He began a slow and careful descent along the fault line. He had made this climb before, but always in daylight. Now he found the moon created false impressions, deepening the shadows and laying ghostly highlights on the rock. The first stage consisted of a narrow trail leading down the bluff for thirty feet, but at a sharp angle. His only need was to watch his footing.

   The remainder of the descent was by ledges and projections from the face of the cliff, and more difficult. He took his time, testing each hand and foot hold before shifting his weight. The trip was not especially dangerous for an agile young lad. He reached the rock ledge near the water line without trouble.

   He eased himself onto the ledge and looked about him a trifle uncertainly. The moon stood directly overhead, strong enough to cast shadows, illuminating a ledge some four feet wide, sixty feet long and three feet above the black face of the rushing water. High water submerged the ledge, and as the water receded, the river deposited pieces of driftwood in untidy piles against the cliff. He had little difficulty in locating driftwood suitable for a small raft, one large enough for his rifle and clothing.

   While working on the raft, he heard the occasional splash of a feeding fish above the soft rush of the water. He paused to study the river. From the sound, the fish was large, larger than any he had caught. Other than ripples following the current, there was no sign of fish or their feeding on the bland face of the river.

   He placed his rifle next to the driftwood he had collected and searched his pocket for rawhide he carried for this purpose. Much closer now, the fish splashed noisily. Ignoring the sound, he tied the three pieces of wood together and experimentally placed his rifle across the improvised raft. The raft was large enough to carry his rifle and clothing without trouble.

   He removed his homespun shirt, placed it atop the rifle and paused, suddenly wary. Above the soft rush of the river, he heard a grunt of effort followed by a splash. The noise was on the upstream side of the ledge, and sounded as if an animal or a man tried to climb to the ledge. That could explain the splashing of the fish too.

   He moved toward the sound, careful but not especially worried.

   When he reached the end of the ledge and glanced down, he backed up hastily. An Indian tried to climb to the ledge and made awkward work of it. Staring at the dark edge of the ledge, Sean backed up another step, out of sight. He believed he had been seen.

   Judging from the awkward and scrabbling movements of the Indian, he was evidently injured. If Sean helped, would the Indian attempt to kill him? Probably not. Could he simply stay here and let the Indian drown? He sighed in disgust. Definitely not!

   After he had checked his rifle carefully, he leaned it against the cliff, and at a spot handy to the ledge. Kneeling on the ledge, he felt out the dark surface near the cliff until his hands encountered a stout limb, something for the Indian to cling to while being hauled to the shelf. Sean hefted it doubtfully. The limb was also large enough to serve as a club if the Indian appeared hostile.

   His rifle conveniently close, he stooped and held the limb to the Indian. The Indian was a girl--the girl from the island with her hands tied before her. He dropped the limb, fell prone and grabbed her wrists.

   Apparently she had not been aware of him, and stopped her struggles, staring at him, her eyes wide with fright. She made no outcry, but slid deeper into the water, not fighting him, but uncertain of this new situation.

   He held passively to her wrists, waiting for her to recover her wits. In her rescue, he would require her help. Her body was deep in the water, the current so strong that it swept her legs away from the cliff and almost sucking her under.

   She was motionless now, allowing him to take the strain of her weight and the pull of the river. Her initial fear had evaporated, his lack of movement reassuring her. She realized she could not make the ledge on her own, but doubtfully searched his face with large eyes.

   Sean held her against the strong pull of the swirling waters, studying her face in turn. Her mouth was too large for her small and thin features, rendering her attractive but not quite pretty.

   She gave a tentative tug against his hands, then another. After a slight hesitation, he released her. She sank quickly from sight in the dingy water. He shuddered suddenly. Should he have released her? She reappeared at the edge of the ledge, clinging desperately to a projection of rock with her bound hands. At her mute look of appeal, he fell prone, leaned far out and hooked his fingers through her bonds.

   His balance precarious, he held her above the water and edged her closer to the cliff face. A powerful current drew her feet toward the river; and if she released her grip now, both would be in the water.

   With a frightened glance at the river, she fought against the current, seeking holds on the rock and ledges for her bare feet and bound hands. With the aid of a weak toe hold, she pushed herself higher, pulling against his hands.

   This helped in raising her; and when her feet slipped, he was able to hold her in place until she obtained a new purchase. He edged away from the sheer face of rock to a better position, still prone but one giving him more leverage.

   He tugged at her until she was waist deep in the water, about as high as he could manage from him prone position. He balanced her while coming to his knees. She found purchase for both feet, rising enough to hook her elbows on the ledge. He shifted his grip to her upper arms and slid her bodily to safety, across the ledge.

   She rolled against the rock face of the cliff at his feet, panting from her efforts, but fearful too. When he made no move, she slowly sat up, her back against the cliff, her eyes never leaving his face.

   He smiled suddenly and raised his right hand, palm outward, in the universal sign of peace. She relaxed fractionally, but watched him closely; and when he drew a knife from his belt, she flinched involuntarily. He furnished another reassuring smile, and when she had relaxed fractionally, he severed her bonds. Very gently, so he wouldn't upset her, he pulled her to her feet against the cliff, released her and stepped backward.

   She was small of bone, almost delicate, little more than a child.

   Her deerskin dress was wet, clinging to her slight frame, but indicated the barest rounding of womanhood.

   He turned to study the river uncertainly. Now that he had rescued her from the river, what could he do with her? The Indians would make a full scale search upon finding her missing, and they would discover this shortly. The only certainty was, if he were captured, he would be killed. He repressed a shiver.

   He had no choice other than to swim the river with her in tow.

   Furthermore, if they reached the opposite bank, he must take her home with him. It was impossible for her to evade her captors and survive alone. His father would probably have a fit, but would help, maybe even approve.

   The Indians would have a canoe out very soon, if not already.

   Should he try the river or the cliff? Not the cliff, he decided. The moonlight would highlight the cliff, and he doubted she could make the climb. The one thing certain was that they couldn't stay here.

   A neighbor, Bill Abernathy, had amused himself by teaching Sean Indian sign language, enough to make himself understood. Sean waved his right hand to attract her attention, although it wasn't necessary.

   Her eyes devoured him. Using his hands clumsily, he asked her name, his hand movements clear enough in the moonlight.

   Her hands moved swiftly in reply--too swiftly. He motioned for her to move more slowly. She repeated the same gestures, her hands moving gracefully. Her name was Laughing something. Laughing Bird?

   No, but some kind of bird. She made a cooing sound. Laughing Dove.

   His hands slightly unsure in the gloom, he questioned her. She was Assiniboin and from many suns away, to the north. She was twelve summers in age. He wondered if she were lying. To reinforce her age, she held up ten fingers, then two. She had been a captive for two moons. Her hands told him more, but he couldn't follow her hand talk well enough to understand all of it.

   He felt they wasted time they could ill afford, but tarried to reassure her. He told her his name, using his mother's pet name. She sometimes called him "Kit" for a red fox's kitten. He spelled out Little Fox, which was as close as he could come. She asked if he were a warrior and he denied it. Although certain of the answer, he asked if the Indians would search for her. She nodded simply.

   His face wry, he turned uneasily toward the river, considering his options. The obvious and best landing was across the river at Abernathy's dock. If they reached the dock unobserved, they could not help leaving tracks that any Indian could follow. This couldn't be helped, he decided, but was something to worry about, when and if they reached the dock. Abernathy was not married and was not at home. He had said that he aimed to attend some sort of doings in the settlement.

   Sean turned back to her, attempting to convey something of this, but pretty well botching it. She did grasp the general idea and was agreeable. He studied her, unsure how to approach the remainder of his message. The river here was fast, with a strong undercurrent that could easily drag them under, especially if they wore clothing. He hesitated for a moment more before telling her this.

   She studied him thoughtfully, but was encouraged by his obvious embarrassment. Without argument, she swiftly pulled her doeskin dress over her head while he struggled from his pants. Naked, he kicked off his moccasins and looked up to see her examining him without a shade of self-consciousness. She tentatively touched the white skin on his chest where the sun never reached, pressing gently with one finger, unable to understand the lack of color.

   He smiled suddenly at her, no longer embarrassed. He bundled and fastened their clothing to the raft and placed his rifle on top. The frail craft hardly seemed adequate for the support of two people. He added two larger pieces of driftwood. The additional weight and area would make the raft harder to manage in the current, but would carry most of their weight if they tired. And they would tire. Considering her previous exertion, he doubted if her slight body possessed the strength and stamina for the long and difficult trip across the river.

       The extra wood would support her.

   He carefully searched out the ledge until he found her severed bonds. After throwing them into the river, he made a scrubbing motion, pointing at her feet and her faintly discernible foot prints in the dirt. While holding to the shelf with one hand, he dropped into the water and shoveled water onto the ledge with his other hand. A powerful current worked patiently at his legs and body, forcing him away from the ledge.

   Using both hands to cling to the ledge, he raised himself to watch her remove all traces of her presence. She reached the edge and paused to look at him questioningly. At his nod of approval, she slipped into the water beside him. Sean scooped more water onto the ledge and rubbed his hand vigorously over her last prints.

   With a last glance, he drew the raft into the water and steadied it until she had shifted her hands to the raft. Releasing the ledge, he shoved the raft away from the ledge with his feet. The Indians would find indications of his presence but nothing of hers. They would wonder and possibly back track him up the cliff.

   The current was fully as fast and strong as he had feared, pushing the clumsy raft down the river all too quickly. Both of them swam, their hands pushing against the raft and angling against the current, but maybe not enough. Before she had started to tire, and at Sean's insistence, she rested by decreasing her efforts.

   Abernathy's dock lay some distance downstream, but at the rate the current carried them, they could easily be swept past it. Once past the dock, their chances of landing, of surviving and hiding their tracks diminished. If the Indians captured them, he would join her as a captive, with his future less certain.

   The bland light of the moon confused landmarks, making identification difficult. The moon furnished no sense of depth, the background details obscure. Sean saw, or thought he saw, a familiar lightning-blasted squirrel tree. They must quarter the current at a greater angle or they would be swept past the dock. He turned the clumsy raft at a greater angle to the current and swam harder, using only one hand on the raft. She increased the tempo of her strokes, the raft bobbing clumsily under their combined efforts.

   Judging from a brief backward glance at the dark cliffs, Sean believed they were about half way across and passing through the last of the strong current. He tired swiftly and changed hands, turning to face
her.

   She held her lower lip between her teeth, her face pale and strained. She tired, had been tired before they started. Sean motioned that she rest. Although understanding his pantomime, she shook her head stubbornly. Not having the time to argue, he pushed with more force.

   Her efforts continued to deteriorate until she rested. Her head against the raft and all but exhausted, she moved her feet only enough to stay afloat, enough to relieve her weight on the raft.

   He began to struggle too, his smooth strokes faltering and his body no longer so buoyant. She came to his aid, throwing her failing strength into his efforts. Sensibly, he reduced his strokes, sacrificing speed for rhythm.

   The bank rushed by much too swiftly, and his efforts would become ineffectual before too long. They must reach the backwaters before that happened. Despite a healthy taste of fear, his swimming became more ragged, his muscles losing strength, and her efforts worse. They made bare headway against the current. He had started to despair when the current suddenly released them into the backwaters of the west bank.

   Easing their efforts, they drifted the raft slowly into the shelter of the bank.

   All but exhausted, Sean stopped the raft by grasping a root with his left hand and using the root as a fulcrum to swung the raft upstream until it rested against his chest. They girl fell naturally into the hollow of his right shoulder, and he allowed her to rest against him.

   His feet found additional support among the tangle of roots growing from the bank, enough to hold her and the raft against the gentle surge of the river.

   The top of the dark river bank loomed some six feet above their heads, almost sheer, and shadowed by the westing moon. He glanced across the river, to the frowning cliffs silvered by the moon. He found nothing he could recognize.

   He relaxed slightly. From a canoe riding the bosom of the river, the two of them would be difficult to see against the dark bank. For the first time, he felt reasonably safe and confident of their escape.

   Sean's muscles were so weak that his grip on the root was lifeless. Laughing Dove was in worse shape, her body quivering and close to collapse. Although they had come perilously close to disaster, he relaxed.

   Although knowing they were near the dock, how near he was not certain. He eased the strain on his left arm by encircling her and using his right arm against the raft. The tiredness of his muscles drained away and he swung the raft against the root, allowing the root to aid in holding the clumsy craft against the current. Her breathing gradually steadied and she relaxed, helping to hold the raft.

   He rested for as long as he dared, more for her sake than for his.

   There was no way to guess how soon to expect pursuit, but he suspected the Indians might already be on the river.

   The two of them pushed away from the bank and allowed the slight current to drift the raft down the river, only paddling enough to remain within the shadow of the bank. Their progress was slow, sluggish, but steady; and Sean wondered uneasily if they had passed the dock. Were they already too far downstream? The bluffs lining the east bank were formless, holding no distinguishing features that he recognized. He searched the shoreline ahead of them with growing worry. In a short time, he vaguely separated the piling supporting the dock from the river and relaxed.

Copyright © 1998