Crouching as far away from him as her bound arms would let her, Emma
kept to the shadows as the man sat down on the buffalo robe. He looked at her for
a moment, and then unsheathed a long knife. Emma gasped in fear, thinking he meant
to kill her. Instead of putting the knife to her scalp, however, the man leaned forward
and cut the rope binding her hands about the tree. Emma rubbed her sore wrists, and
shrank even further into the shadows behind her.
"You sure got yourself in a mighty tight fix, Ma'am," he declared, returning the knife to his belt and letting his arms drape over the rifle across his lap.
Emma was startled when she heard his voice. He spoke English like a white man!
Josiah looked at the campfire, allowing the woman to get a glimpse of his face in the dim light. He had no beard, and an eagle feather dangled from long dark hair that went past his shoulders. Emma could see the strong cheekbones of her captors in his face, but also something more. He didn't quite look like the other Indians.
"I'm half Indian, Ma'am," he finally answered her unspoken question. "Half Blackfoot, half white-- but all mountain man." At this, he grinned proudly. "Name's Josiah Brown." The woman was crouched in the shadow of the tree, so Josiah was unable to see her face or to tell whether she was happy if he was there. When he heard the rapid intake of her frightened breath, Josiah understood she was still afraid.
"Have you come to save me, Mr. Brown?"
"That depends," he hesitated, "on what you're meaning by 'saved.' Saved from them there Blackfoot... or from me?"
"Both." Her answer was quick and decisive, and it made Josiah shake his head apologetically.
"I'm afraid you can't have it both ways, Ma'am." Sensing she was about to bolt, Josiah quickly reached into the darkness and took hold of her by the ankle. "Them Blackfoot will kill us both if I don't take you to wife," he informed her bluntly.
At the feel of his grip, Emma struggled to free her ankle. "I don't believe you!" she cried. "You're one of them!"
Just then, the leader of the two Indians stood up from the campfire and looked in their direction.
Every muscle in Josiah's being tensed as he waited to see if the Indian was going to come and check him now, or not. "You'd best be believing me," Josiah growled in a low rumble, his eyes remaining glued to the campfire. His left hand gripped his Hawken rifle. The Indian was staring hard in their direction, as if trying to make up his mind. "Not now," Josiah's breath came out in a barely audible whisper. "Not yit. I ain't ready fer you yit." When the Indian sat back down with his jug of whiskey, Emma felt the hand on her ankle loosen its grip by just a little. "I'd better git started afore he comes," muttered Josiah, pinning Emma to the buffalo robe with one strong leg to free his hand from her ankle. "You got kin, Ma'am?"
"No," she whimpered.
"What about a man? You got a man?"
"No."
"You're gonna have one now," he declared, "so you'd better start getting used to me, Ma'am."
"Please, let me go, Mr. Brown!" begged Emma.
Josiah pulled off his buckskin hunting shirt and looked back at the campfire one more time. "Wisht I had me more whiskey. They ain't gonna git drunk off'a what's left in that jug."
Behind the deep shadow of the wide tree, Josiah crawled to Emma and lay down beside her on the buffalo robe. "I ain't had a woman in quite a spell," he breathed quietly, "but I'll try not to bother you too much."
Emma whimpered helplessly as Josiah's mouth found hers. When she wouldn't return his kiss, the mountain man left off kissing and continued on with his business.
What else happened behind the tree, I won't say, but when the Blackfoot Indian came to see if Josiah was true to his word, the Indian left, content that Josiah really had wanted a wife.
As the sky overhead began to change hue with the coming of morning, Josiah propped himself up on one elbow and peered down at the sleeping woman beside him.
"Yeller hair," he wondered in amazement. Josiah had once seen a woman with yellow hair, but she had been the wife of a prominent white man, and had been decidedly off limits to her many admirers. Josiah took a loose strand of the long blonde hair and rubbed it between his fingers. It flowed behind the woman's head and cascaded in a gentle wave of captured sunlight.
The soft light of day finally revealed Emma's face to the man, and he saw that she was probably about as old as he was-- most likely coming on thirty years of age. How could a woman who looked like this, still be a virgin? The night before had confirmed this fact to Josiah; he didn't need to check for any blood in her petticoats to know that she had never known a man before him. The graceful curve of her cheek, the long eyelashes, the rose colored lips that had refused to kiss him, all held Josiah's rapt attention.
Feeling someone's breath on her face, Emma's eyes suddenly fluttered open in alarm. A rough hand quickly smothered her cry, and an eagle feather dangled in her face as its owner turned to look back at the cold campfire.
"They've been taking turns all night, and staying up to keep an eye on us. I've an oneasy feeling they ain't done with us," he softly breathed, turning back to look at the woman. Josiah wasn't prepared for the frightened brown eyes that met his, and he had to swallow hard and steady his voice before speaking. "Morning Ma'am."
From beneath the long lashes Josiah had been admiring, Emma gazed at him with curiosity. His chest felt greasy, and he had a rank smell that suggested he hadn't bathed in awhile. Against the light of day, Emma saw that his hair wasn't black after all, but a dark shade of brown that lightened at the tips-- very much like a grizzly bear. There was a slight curl to it that nearly made Emma smile, for she easily guessed he had been curly headed as a boy. Besides his tall stature and solid build, his face was his most prominent feature. It was strong and unyielding, and bespoke a hard life seasoned with experience. Then there were those piercing dark eyes that seemed to bore straight into her. Shifting uncomfortably on the buffalo robe, Emma realized she was staring, and awkwardly tried to look elsewhere.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," Josiah apologized, "but I don't believe you ever told me your name."
Mortified, Emma bit her lip. How could she possibly be married to a perfect stranger, who didn't even know her name? Emma felt the touch of his hand as he stroked her long mane.
"Your name?" he pressed once more.
"Emma. Emma Perkins."
A noise from the campsite momentarily distracted Josiah, and Emma could feel the eagle feather on her neck as he turned to see if both Indians were awake. When he saw just the one, Josiah looked back at Emma. "They ain't gonna let go of a beauty like you, for no half a jug of whiskey. I reckon I'm a dead man, unless I do something about it afore they do."
The young Blackfoot yawned and looked back at the tree. He could still see Josiah's moccasins, and was satisfied that the trapper was still asleep. The Indian eyed the empty whiskey jug on the ground and wished Josiah had had more. That one jug had bought the mountain man a night with the white captive, but now that it was day, he was going to be in for a surprise.
From his hiding spot behind some trees, Josiah was prepared to rush the young Indian from behind. His plan was interrupted, however, when the older Blackfoot unexpectedly roused from his sleep and started talking with the other in guarded whispers.
Josiah was silently scolding himself for getting such a late start on things, when he suddenly heard footsteps close to his hiding spot. Realizing that his presence was about to be discovered, Josiah quickly dropped his pants and started relieving himself. Just then, a face peered at him through the bushes. "Howdy," Josiah nodded to the Blackfoot.
The Indian grunted and went to inform his companion that the mountain man was already awake.
When Josiah had finished, the older of the two Blackfoot approached him with a rifle, while the younger stood at his side, equally armed. "Woman bleed?" he asked.
Josiah hesitated, recognizing the guarded stance of both men. "Woman was virgin," he nodded.
"No want whiskey back?" the older Indian laughed without smiling.
Josiah was sizing them up, and knew he had guessed correctly. They were not going to let him leave this camp alive. "No want whiskey back," he shook his head. "Woman was virgin," then he added in English, "and I aim to keep her." Josiah pointed his rifle in the direction of his horse. "Want more whiskey?" he asked in Blackfoot.
Instead of the eager looks they had given him the night before when the subject of liquor had been broached, the two Blackfoot remained unchanged. By their lack of enthusiasm, Josiah knew he was in for a fight.
"I git whiskey," he nodded to them. With measured even strides, Josiah turned his back to his enemy and started for his horse. As he tightly gripped the sturdy rifle in his hand, Josiah was glad he had double-checked the priming on his Hawken before leaving the buffalo robe that morning. One on his left, and one on his right. Josiah didn't like the odds. He reckoned he could get off one shot before they both unloaded their weapons into him, but he could only take one man. That still left the other to deal with. If only he could make it to his horse in time to get his pistol.
The small hairs on the back of Josiah's neck suddenly stood on end. Josiah could sense imminent danger hanging in the air, and he braced himself.
A loud crack sounded, and Josiah felt a biting pain in his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the telltale puff of smoke that told him which Indian had fired. Grinning broadly, Josiah rapidly spun around and raised his Hawken at the older Indian who had yet to fire his weapon. Without a moment's hesitation, Josiah squeezed the trigger and the man staggered backward, his rifle discharging into the air as he dropped to the ground. Then Josiah unsheathed his Bowie knife and let out a bloodcurdling war cry.
Stunned by the mountain man's nerve and not having enough time to reload his weapon, the young Indian dropped his rifle and grabbed the knife at his side. He didn't have any time, before Josiah was upon him.
Peering from around her tree, Emma timidly checked to see who was winning. One Indian was already dead, while another lay at Josiah's feet, his legs still thrashing about. Emma's blurry vision was unclear, but when she squinted, she could see Josiah's hand take hold of the dying man by his hair, and deftly move something across his scalp.
As Josiah tore away his trophy, he heard the terrified screams of a woman. Alarmed, he checked the empty campsite for an enemy he had missed. When he realized there was no one, Josiah looked back at the tree to Emma. She was standing there, her eyes wide and staring, her face filled with horror.
Josiah took a step toward her and she fled into the trees.
Emma's mind was frantic with the thought of escape! Her eyesight had not been clear, but the little she had seen was more than enough to make her sick with fright. He was just like those two Indians after all, and she had been naive to hope that he wasn't! Branches flailed at her body as she thrust herself heedlessly into the forest, desperately trying to find a hiding place from the monster that she was sure was now pursuing her.
"Ma'am!" a voice called out from behind.
Finding no place to hide, Emma ran as fast as her wounded leg would carry her. When she felt a hand catch hold of her dress, she screamed uncontrollably.
"Have you gone plumb crazy?" shouted Josiah, struggling to get his arms around her to hold her still.
" Don't kill me!" she screamed, gripping the arms holding her around the waist. "Please, don't kill me!"
"Calm down, Ma'am!" Josiah's voice was getting more agitated by the moment, until he finally pushed her to the forest floor and weighted her down with his body.
As she squirmed beneath him, Emma's hand touched the still dripping, gruesome trophy hanging from Josiah's belt; it rapidly sent her into renewed hysterics.
Josiah reached for his belt and tossed aside the offending scalp. Then he pinned Emma's arms to the ground by her wrists.
"I ain't gonna hurt you!" he huffed into her face. The adrenaline from battle was still fresh in his veins, and his heart was pounding so loudly it nearly drowned out her voice.
"You're just like them!" she cried.
"I never said I was no angel, Emma!"
"That man was still alive!"
"They was the enemy!" Josiah argued. "If I hadn't done it to them, they would've gladly done it to me!"
Emma shook her head. "That doesn't make it right!"
It wasn't a surprise to discover that she had religion, for Josiah had figured as much by the way her father had mumbled God's name in prayer before death.
By now, Emma was weeping pitifully beneath him, horrified at this man who had taken her as his wife.
"Now, now," Josiah tried to soothe her, "I ain't all that bad." His conscience smarted a bit from his lie. Not liking what he knew Emma must be thinking about him, Josiah tried to distract her by running his hand down her arm. When Emma's sobs broke off in a gasp of inadvertent pleasure, Josiah saw his chance for a little revenge. "Stop blaming yourself fer having a good time," he chided.
When Emma felt the humiliation of his remark, it filled her with indignation and confused shame. By the look on her face, Josiah knew she was still struggling to reconcile her senses with what her upbringing had taught her was right.
"Are you trying to tell me you didn't enjoy last night?" he laughed at her mockingly.
"I can't be married to you," answered Emma. "You aren't a Christian."
Josiah dropped his head and placed his lips against her ear. He felt Emma shudder at his touch. "If we ain't married, then what does that make you? No, Emma, you're mine now. I was the first to lay with you, and fer as long as I live, you won't lay with anyone else. Do you hear?"
Emma's breathing had slowed and her strength expended by the constant drain of emotion she was presently enduring.
"I wanna hear you say it!" demanded Josiah, his face only inches from hers.
Emma felt the full weight of Josiah bearing down on her body.
"Say it!" he growled.
"I won't lay with anyone else but you," she finally mumbled.
"And who am I?" Josiah squeezed her wrists until her hands tingled.
"You're my husband," whimpered Emma.
"Say it again!"
"You're my husband." Emma's face was getting quite pale now, and Josiah was beginning to think he might have pushed her too far.
"If I let you up, you promise not to run?" he asked.
"I promise."
Josiah climbed off Emma and she struggled to sit up. Her leg was hurting something fierce, and when she touched it, her face lit up with pain.
"I'd better git a look at that," said Josiah, brusquely pushing back her dress and petticoats without even a "May I?"
Emma grimaced, unwilling to look at the wound.
"It's deep," declared Josiah, getting to his feet soberly. "I need to fetch you back to camp."
"I'm too tired," Emma shook off the hand that tried to help her up. "I want to stay here."
"Stop talking nonsense," he scolded.
Her emotions numb, Emma curled up on her side and shut her eyes. Perhaps this was all a bad dream that would go away with sleep.
"That wound needs tending to, Emma." Unwilling to wait any longer for her compliance, Josiah hoisted Emma over his shoulder and started back for camp.
Draped over Josiah's shoulder, Emma was seeing the world entirely upside down and from the vantage of his backside. The leather fringe on the bottom of his buckskin shirt swayed and danced back and forth as he moved, and for awhile the hypnotic movement entertained Emma. Then she noticed that the seat of his leather britches were black, while the rest of his buckskins were mostly dark brown. Why was that? It wasn't easy to think too hard with so much blood rushing to her head, but Emma finally concluded that it was because Josiah sat in the saddle so much of the time.
Just when Emma was certain that her own bottom had been deprived of every drop of blood, having been distributed entirely to her head and feet, Josiah lifted her onto the buffalo robe behind their tree. She noticed he had been careful to take the long way around camp, so she couldn't see the carnage of the slain Blackfoot nearby. Even now, Emma couldn't see anything from the vantage he had placed her.
"Stay put," he commanded before leaving to go restart the campfire.
Emma felt as though she couldn't move, even if she had wanted to, and was quite willing to remain where she was. At least the buffalo hide was softer than the forest floor with all its pine needles coming up to poke her body. Tired, Emma reclined on the makeshift bed and stared at the Autumn canopy of yellow above her. How could something so peaceful as these majestic trees still be possible, when she felt as though her life were over?
"God," Emma prayed once more, "I don't understand."
A gentle breeze picked its way through the trees and caressed Emma's cheek. A prayer Jesus had said in the Garden of Gethsemane came to her mind, and this time Emma could recall every word with perfect clarity, as though she had had an open Bible right before her: "Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done." In the midst of the insanity around her, those words came as a balm to Emma's soul. Hadn't Pa always told her that God had a purpose for everything that happened in their lives? Even the bad things? "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose." Romans eight, twenty-eight had been one of Emma's Bible memory verses, for her Pa had promised there would come a time in her life when she would need to remember it. "Emma," he had said, "God has a purpose for your life, and He'll put you where He best sees fit. You just need patience to find where that place is."
Josiah returned and knelt down on the robe beside Emma. He was holding an old knife with a red hot blade, as if he had just drawn it from the fire. "Open yer mouth," he instructed.
Emma's wide eyes fixed on the glowing knife. "Why?" she timidly asked.
Not giving any explanation, Josiah forced a wooden stick between her teeth. "Chomp down," he warned, as he pushed back her dress.
Swallowing a deep gulp of air, Emma braced herself and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
With the skill of a man who had done this before, Josiah cleaned and cauterized Emma's wound. The second the knife met her skin, Emma clutched in pain and moaned. She would have violently jerked her leg out from under Josiah's knife, but he held her down until his work was finished. When Emma didn't faint as he had expected her to, the mountain man smiled within himself. Brave men had passed out from less, and this woman was showing she had grit.
While Emma's pale face silently watched on, Josiah sat cross-legged on the robe and began tending to his own wounds. He pulled off his buckskin shirt and twisted himself around to get a good look at his shoulder. "I nearly went under with that shot," he remarked, knowing full well that Emma was listening. "That crazy young Blackfoot jumped the gun, and started shooting afore he was supposed to. It plumb took his elder by surprise, and even though his gun were loaded, he hesitated a mite too long." Josiah glanced over to Emma and grinned broadly. "That were all I needed to get him, and get him good! Lookit," he proudly showed off his wound to the woman, "fer all that, the ball only grazed me!" Josiah picked up his buckskin shirt and his face screwed in displeasure. "It sure left a good rip, though."
Josiah got up and went to his packhorse, returning a short while later with an awl and some sinew. He punched the awl into the leather and then forced the sinew through the holes he had made. Then he pulled the leather tight and tied it off.
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