her left, a low line of blue-gray mountains broke the flat horizon. The distance, she knew, was deceiving. It would take days to reach the foothills. With no food or water, that way was out of the question. To her right, the ground rolled before her, falling away into an undulating sea of grass. A black mass moved upon it like a shadow upon the land. Caitie’s heart leaped in her breast at the buffalo ranging as far as the eye could see! She’d seen them before, but safely from the seat of a wagon. She didn’t want to be on foot anywhere near a herd that size.
That left two options. What was before her and what lay behind. She’d escaped the Bolins twice now. Once, thanks to a gun-slinger with a sense of fair play, and the second time, pure luck. Having another run-in with them was more than she cared to try.
Caitie looked intently at the landscape before her. The unknown held new appeal. Without hesitation, she started forward. The sun cooked her face, burning her eyes and her lips, which only added to the misery of an empty belly, and still she walked.
It was hours later before she would top a rise that gave her hope. Legs shaking from exertion and hunger, she paused at the crest of a hill and looked down at the valley below. Trees dotted the landscape. Beyond the tops of the farthest trees, Caitie thought she saw…
“Water! Blessed Jesus, tis water!”
She crossed herself out of habit although she’d long since given up counting on anybody but herself, and started forward at a brisk walk. The impetus of moving downhill shifted the walk to a trot, and by the time she’d gained the level floor of the valley, Caitie O’Shea was in an all-out run. Still several hundred yards from the river, the smell of the water was already in her nose.
Eyes Like Mole saw the white man. Several hundred yards away. Running toward him like a madman. And man is what he thought Caitie to be. His misconception rested upon the fact that she wore the pants of a white man and had chopped off her hair to match, but the closer she came, the more nervous he got.
At a distance, his vision was fine. From where he sat upon his horse, he could see for miles in every direction. But up close to his prey—or his enemies—where survival often counted the most—navigation was accomplished with a combination of blurry images and keen ears, and the fact that his horse knew the way home. Eyes Like Mole couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
A squat man of little import within his people, the Arapaho, Eyes Like Mole had yet to take a wife when some of his friends had already taken a second. For the last three days he’d been on a vision quest, fasting and meditating, hoping that during his cleansing, the spirits of his ancestors would guide him on the right path. Now he wondered what this intrusion would mean. So he sat and he watched, even though the sun was hot upon his bare shoulders and sweat ran beneath his deerskin leggings and down into his moccasins. It did not matter. Soon a breeze would come by and he would be cool. Personal comfort was a small thing to consider for a man who could not see all that he should.
His horse neighed softly as it, too, saw the oncoming stranger. Eyes Like Mole still sat—motionless—watching—and considering the stupidity of white man in general. An Arapaho child of four winters would know better than to wander away from camp, and yet as far as he could tell, the white man was alone.
As the man came closer, Eyes Like Mole was forced to squint to adjust his eyesight, trying to distinguish between blowing bush and running man. When the man suddenly fell into the water and began flopping like a land-bound fish, Eyes Like Mole grunted. He’d located the white man’s new position by sound alone. He kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks and rode forward.
Caitie fell to her belly on the river bank, thrusting her hands and arms into the water and then splashing her hot, burning face. With a sigh of relief, she dipped her head, drinking long and deep, teasing an empty stomach into thinking it was full. And when she had slaked her thirst, she jumped into the water, clothes and all, sluicing