1880, Western Wyoming
Digging her fingers into the wet mud of a nearby bank, she dragged herself from the water and collapsed face down in the mud.
Get up, the thought pulsed in the back of her mind, if you don’t, then he wins.
She didn’t have much time left. Hontas could feel the warmth running down her torso. She rose, slowly, carefully bracing herself on her knees and moved her arm to survey the damage. Her wound, though chilled by the frigid river water, had not stopped bleeding. Beneath her ripped buttoned shirt, all that remained of her left breast was an angry red flower of mutilated flesh. The missing weight of it was replaced with deep, burning pain.
Her muscles and bones ached as she got to her feet and wrapped her leather duster around herself with a wince. She trudged forward, her feet unsteady in her waterlogged riding boots.
The distant light from the dawning sun made it easier to take stock of her surroundings. The bank gave way to the shore covered with lush green grass while heavy trees hung overhead. With every brush of the wind, rainwater showered from the branches.
Moving through the trees, Hontas felt herself steadily growing weaker. Her vision blurred. She felt the soft soil beneath her opening up, yawning wide, ready to accept her fall. It would be so easy. A simple buckle of her shaky knees and it would all be over. This would be her last sunrise.
She found her way to a clearing and spotted the burnt remains of a small village comprised of several torched tipis, it appeared to have been abandoned long ago. Hontas gritted her teeth as she stumbled towards the only tipi that was still intact. When she lifted the flap of the tent, the action tensed the muscles in her chest, making her groan. She was dismayed to find that the rear wall of the tipi had collapsed, exposing the back portion to the elements. As she manoeuvred carefully under the flap, she spied a small buckskin pouch under a pile of wood. She shoved the wood aside with a grunt and snatched it up. Inside Hontas found small black pear-shaped seeds. She closed her fist around them.
Peyote.
Rummaging further in the tipi, her eyes lit up when she found two fist-sized pieces of pyrite and some tinder under a wet bed. She acted swiftly, positioning the tinder into a small mound in the middle of the tipi floor, where it was still dry. Bracing her arm against her leg, she palmed the pyrite stone with one bloody hand and struck it with the other. The impact sent waves of pain through her, bringing with it the memory of a face. She raised the stone again and brought it down hard. A small shower of sparks spattered down into the tinder.
Smythe.
His rotund face was illuminated by torchlight, which made the buttery sweat on his pale skin shine.
The rocks cracked together again.
The lantern flew from his hand, sailed through the air and finally smashed, spilling its fire.
She hit it again, harder this time.
He unsheathed his thick knife, which shone silver in the moonlight.
Sparks caught hold of the tinder. The edges of the wood strips began to glow as the fire slowly flickered to life.
Hontas sat back on the ground, stared into the fire and saw the knife come down.
Pulling the drenched clothing from her body was difficult, but she managed to do it. In the corner of the tipi, she seized upon the blade of a small hatchet that had fallen from its handle. She dragged the blade over and placed one of its flat edges into the fire. Before long, the metal began to sizzle. She brought herself to her knees and felt her body starting to sway. She balanced herself as best as she could. It had to be now.
She snatched the pouch up and emptied its contents into her mouth, chewing them as hard as she could. She quickly wrapped her good hand in the wet rags of her coat. Then she grasped the hatchet head and pressed it against the wound where her breast had once been.
The scream that tore from her was accompanied by the smell of burning flesh.
The world tilted. Hontas barely felt herself hit the ground. The hatchet head fell out of her hand and onto the wet grass outside.
