Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Fort Lathrop
By late afternoon, the temperature plummeted twenty degrees as a grey anvil cloud rolled down from the Wind River peaks, promising a bitter night of snow. Chata ordered the band to make camp in a deep, horseshoe-shaped box canyon where the limestone walls offered natural protection from the wind and hid their campfires from the valley below.
Tipis were pitched with practiced speed, and small, smokeless fires of dry willow and sage were coaxed to life against the frozen ground.
In a sheltered alcove beneath an overhanging ledge of red rock, Emmett knelt beside Ronnie with a basin of melted snow and a fresh strip of clean linen. Desta stood nearby, holding a small clay bowl of bitter willow-bark tea.
“This is going to sting worse than the first time,” Emmett warned, his hands steady as he carefully cut away the blood-stiffened bandage.
Ronnie did not flinch, though her teeth bit hard into her lower lip as the cold air hit the inflamed flesh. The stitches were holding, but the skin around them was angry and hot to the touch.
“You have gentle hands for a man who spent his life tracking killers,” Ronnie whispered, her eyes fixed on his face.
“Who told you I tracked killers?” Emmett asked, his fingers working methodically with the antiseptic wash.
“Red Hawk heard tales years ago down near the border,” Ronnie said, her breathing shallow. “A man of the Texas service who walked away from his badge with blood on his boots and an embroidered handkerchief in his pocket.”
Emmett’s movements froze for a fraction of a second. The name, the badge, the past he had buried beneath four feet of salt flat dust—returned unbidden in the cold canyon wind. He didn't answer. He simply finished cleaning the wound, applied a thick paste of crushed willow leaves that Desta handed him, and bound it tightly with clean linen.
“Done,” Emmett said, standing up and wiping his hands on a rag. “Keep off that horse tomorrow. If the stitches pop before we cross the Sweetwater, the infection will finish what the bullet started.”
“You care whether I live or die,” Ronnie noted quietly, looking up at him with an intensity that made Emmett look away toward the mouth of the canyon.
“I’m a doctor of necessity, Miss Ronnie. I don't like losing patients.”
“It is more than that,” Ronnie said softly. “You carry a ghost in your pocket, Mr. Cross. I saw you touch that cloth the first night in your kitchen. You think because you could not save the one you loved four years ago, you are cursed to watch everyone around you bleed.”
Emmett turned back to her, his jaw tightening into a hard line. “You don't know a damn thing about what happened.”
“I know the smell of deep grief,” Ronnie said, her voice unwavering despite the pain in her side. “It smells just like your house. Empty, cold, and meticulously clean.”
Before Emmett could reply, a low whistle echoed from the mouth of the canyon. Red Hawk appeared out of the gathering dusk, moving with the silent, fluid grace of a shadow. He walked straight to where Chata was conferring with two sub-chiefs by a small fire.
Emmett walked over, leaving the sisters in the alcove.
“What is it?” Emmett asked as he reached the fire.
Red Hawk looked at Chata before speaking. “Soldiers. A detachment of twenty cavalrymen from Fort Lathrop. They aren't patrolling the telegraph line anymore. They’re tracking us.”
Chata stood up slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheath knife. “How many tracks did they find?”
“They haven't found our main trail yet,” Red Hawk said. “They cut the sign of our scouts near the creek three miles south. They are camping at the old stage station tonight. At dawn, they will sweep the ravines.”
Chata turned his dark eyes toward Emmett. “If they find this box canyon, they will bring the whole garrison down upon us before we can reach the timberline.”
“Then we don't let them find it,” Emmett said, his voice dropping into the steady, flat tone he hadn't used since his days on the border.
“How?” Chata asked. “There are twenty of them, well-armed, with horses and carbines. We cannot ambush them without risking women and children in the valley.”
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“We don't ambush them,” Emmett said, staring out toward the dark, freezing plains where the wind was beginning to howl. “We lead them somewhere else.”
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