there, poor bony steeds, like Devil, that had managed to actually survive the trip up here.
Plenty of snow covered the ground, but she could see one street ahead that was churned into pure mud from so much use. She took a moment to look for some kind of steeple, but she saw nothing to indicate a church. Still, what there was of Peter’s church was probably no more than a log building like the rest that were here.
“Dear Jesus, please let me find Peter,” she prayed quietly.
She realized that until she did, she would have to guard what was left of their supplies and especially guard Devil. She didn’t want Clint to lose the last and best of his horses. Most important, she had to find someplace warm and dry for Clint and start nursing him back to health, if it wasn’t already too late to save him.
She searched her brain, trying to determine how she would get Clint, Devil and their supplies into town so she could find Peter. If she could get Clint onto Devil, maybe she could somehow drag their supplies, but she needed something to put them on. Then again, Clint would never be able to climb up onto Devil. She’d pack the supplies on the horse and figure out a different way to get Clint to help.
She felt ready to collapse herself, and her arms and shoulders screamed with pain from handling the raft’s rudder for nearly three days by herself. Instinct told her to first look for Clint’s handgun, hoping God would understand she actually might need to shoot anyone who tried to take anything from her or keep her from getting help for Clint.
“I’m so sorry for such un-Christian notions, Lord, but what else can I do?” She looked around frantically, spotting what looked like an abandoned dog sled. “Thank you, Jesus!”
She ran to retrieve the sled, dragging it back to where she’d tied the raft. The sled surely belonged to someone, but if the owner tried to make her give it back, he’d face a six-gun until she got Clint to help! Then he could have his sled back.
She saddled Devil, grimacing with the pain in her shoulders and arms. She then untied their supplies and loaded them onto the horse, reserving softer things like blankets and sleeping bags for the sled. Those things could be used to make a bed for Clint.
Relieved that so far no one came running to claim the sled, she tied all supplies as best she could, having learned from watching Clint. God only knew how long she would have to drag things around town before she found Peter, so everything had to be secure. She wanted to cry from the pain in her shoulders as she worked frantically, and reason told her she’d never be able to lift or help Clint from the raft to the sled. Maybe she could get him to stand up and walk by himself.
Too much time was passing. More men arrived. Some glanced her way, then went on about their business. No one offered to help. It reminded her of the parable in the Bible wherein a wounded man lay robbed and beaten at the side of the road, ignored by priests and others of his own race, until a Samaritan, a natural enemy, came by and helped him.
Finally everything was tied onto the sled. So far no one had come to claim it. She hurried back to Clint, kneeling beside him. “Clint! Clint, we’re here! Please, please try to get up! I found a sled and I packed our supplies on it and tied it to Devil. I can go find us someplace warm and dry now. You’ve got to get off this raft!”
He groaned.
“Clint! Please help me help you. I can’t get you up by myself.”
His eyes opened to slits of red. She shivered at the sight of him, fevered, bearded, scabbed cuts on his cheek. Was he dying after all?
“Please, Clint! I can’t lose you now! We’ll find Peter and get you well first.”
He just stared at her for a moment, then slowly turned and got to his knees. He tried to stand, using her for support, but he collapsed again. “Can’t…breathe,” he answered, before a fit of ugly coughing terrified her.
Elizabeth looked around to see another boat arrive with four men in it. “Help!” she yelled to them. “Please help me get this man onto our sled! He’s sick!”