and blood poured down his leg. He had three miles to go, and within a mile he felt dizzy; in another half mile he was faint and hanging on to the saddle horn with one hand while keeping a tight grip on the little girl with the other.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He’d never make three miles. He was starting to lose the ability to think straight, and he thought he should stop soon before he fell or dropped the girl. Then everything swam in front of his eyes, and all he could think was he had to hold on, hold on, hold on.…
He thought he felt the horse slow—though he kept kicking it to run—and then maybe stop; he thought he heard voices, but they were speaking in some strange tongue and he tried to fight through them; then there was a kind of warm cloud coming down and he thought, This isn’t so bad, dying isn’t so bad, not so bad at all, and then he was gone.
9
1841–1863
A Family
It could have been hours, days, weeks. He knew nothing but visions and sounds that made no sense. He felt as if his thoughts were swimming in thick water. When he tried to make himself think clearly, he would either pass out or fall asleep.
Images.
A moment of intense pain in his left leg and he saw, or thought he saw, an Indian with black braids leaning over him and putting a red-hot iron onto a wound on his leg, and that made him think of the Comanches and that this must be a Comanche burning his leg, and he screamed and screamed and screamed until he passed into blessed oblivion again.
Later, children’s voices, words he did not know, a singsong sound that pushed him down and down into sleep.
Still later, an old woman feeding him some kind of warm broth, and then, embarrassing even in his dream state, the same old woman holding a jar and helping him relieve himself.
For what seemed an endless time, he simply slept, neither saw nor heard anything; until finally, finally, he opened his eyes, and through the slowly dissipating fog of sleep, he could see where he was.
His last memory was of a running horse. And for some reason, kicking his horse to make it run faster. Then more came: the girl, her paint pony—he could remember the horse’s color with surprising vividness—and the wolves, oh yes, the wolves, tearing at the girl.
There were sticks above him, rows of sticks that made no sense. He closed his eyes and opened them again and saw that he wasn’t dead and buried, which he had first thought, but that the sticks were willows laid tightly over log rafters. He was looking up at the ceiling of a sod house.
He moved his head sideways and saw that he was in a single room, lying on a sawn-plank bed on what felt like corn shucks. There was a plank table with two benches in the middle of the room, and a cookstove at one end of the room and a low doorway at the other end. Two window openings about two feet square let in light, and from the angle he guessed it was either early morning or late afternoon. All along the wall facing him were plank shelves covered with jars and sacks and cooking utensils. Next to the bed on another bench was a folded set of clothes. With a start, he realized that he was completely naked under a blanket.
He was alone, for which he was grateful, and without thinking he tried to turn and reach for his pants, but hewas torn by a ripping pain from his left leg and nearly passed out.
Ahh. He’d forgotten the wolf bite. Taking breaths in short gasps, he gingerly raised the blanket and looked at his leg. There was a bandage over the upper thigh, a wrapping of clean cotton that looked like feed sack material.
He was profoundly thirsty, his mouth so dry he felt as if he had never had a drink of water in his life. On the other side of the bed from the bench there was a jar of liquid on the floor. Carefully, slowly, to avoid turning his leg, he reached down and brought the jar up to his mouth and was overjoyed to find that it held water. He drank and drank, letting the water roll down his throat, until the
He wasn’t going to make it.
He’d never make three miles. He was starting to lose the ability to think straight, and he thought he should stop soon before he fell or dropped the girl. Then everything swam in front of his eyes, and all he could think was he had to hold on, hold on, hold on.…
He thought he felt the horse slow—though he kept kicking it to run—and then maybe stop; he thought he heard voices, but they were speaking in some strange tongue and he tried to fight through them; then there was a kind of warm cloud coming down and he thought, This isn’t so bad, dying isn’t so bad, not so bad at all, and then he was gone.
9
1841–1863
A Family
It could have been hours, days, weeks. He knew nothing but visions and sounds that made no sense. He felt as if his thoughts were swimming in thick water. When he tried to make himself think clearly, he would either pass out or fall asleep.
Images.
A moment of intense pain in his left leg and he saw, or thought he saw, an Indian with black braids leaning over him and putting a red-hot iron onto a wound on his leg, and that made him think of the Comanches and that this must be a Comanche burning his leg, and he screamed and screamed and screamed until he passed into blessed oblivion again.
Later, children’s voices, words he did not know, a singsong sound that pushed him down and down into sleep.
Still later, an old woman feeding him some kind of warm broth, and then, embarrassing even in his dream state, the same old woman holding a jar and helping him relieve himself.
For what seemed an endless time, he simply slept, neither saw nor heard anything; until finally, finally, he opened his eyes, and through the slowly dissipating fog of sleep, he could see where he was.
His last memory was of a running horse. And for some reason, kicking his horse to make it run faster. Then more came: the girl, her paint pony—he could remember the horse’s color with surprising vividness—and the wolves, oh yes, the wolves, tearing at the girl.
There were sticks above him, rows of sticks that made no sense. He closed his eyes and opened them again and saw that he wasn’t dead and buried, which he had first thought, but that the sticks were willows laid tightly over log rafters. He was looking up at the ceiling of a sod house.
He moved his head sideways and saw that he was in a single room, lying on a sawn-plank bed on what felt like corn shucks. There was a plank table with two benches in the middle of the room, and a cookstove at one end of the room and a low doorway at the other end. Two window openings about two feet square let in light, and from the angle he guessed it was either early morning or late afternoon. All along the wall facing him were plank shelves covered with jars and sacks and cooking utensils. Next to the bed on another bench was a folded set of clothes. With a start, he realized that he was completely naked under a blanket.
He was alone, for which he was grateful, and without thinking he tried to turn and reach for his pants, but hewas torn by a ripping pain from his left leg and nearly passed out.
Ahh. He’d forgotten the wolf bite. Taking breaths in short gasps, he gingerly raised the blanket and looked at his leg. There was a bandage over the upper thigh, a wrapping of clean cotton that looked like feed sack material.
He was profoundly thirsty, his mouth so dry he felt as if he had never had a drink of water in his life. On the other side of the bed from the bench there was a jar of liquid on the floor. Carefully, slowly, to avoid turning his leg, he reached down and brought the jar up to his mouth and was overjoyed to find that it held water. He drank and drank, letting the water roll down his throat, until the
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