A Man Called Sunday Read Online Free PDF Page A

hold the ponies, so you can go.” In the darkness, Luke couldn’t see the smile on Little Sky’s face as the boy immediately followed, leaving him to guard the horses. With no time to waste, he picked the only pony with a saddle. It was a typical Indian saddle and blanket, but would be easier for Rivers than riding bareback. Had there been time, he would have tried to run the remaining horses off across the river, but he couldn’t take the chance of some more warriors showing up before he was able to get it done.
    When he led the pony back to Rivers, he found the wounded man trying to get up on his knees, the cold snow having brought him out of his faint. “Come on,” Luke said. “I got you a horse. I know it’s gonna be hard for you, but you’ve got to stay on him if you wanna make it back to your company.”
    Rivers nodded. “I’ll make it,” he promised, optimistic now that there was a horse to ride. Luke lifted him up in the saddle and he immediately fell forward on the horse. “I’ll make it,” he repeated, and wrapped his arms around the pony’s neck. The horse, a shaggy sorrel, wasn’t sure he liked the strange smell of the man on his back, or the one holding the rope bridle for that matter. He tossed his head repeatedly in protest, causing Luke to fear he was about to buck Rivers off, so he snatched a blanket off one of the other ponies and rubbed the sorrel’s face with it. The familiar smell served to calm the pony down, enough so that Luke was able to lead it quietly downriver to the plum thicket where his paint was waiting.
    â€œI know you’re hurtin’ a helluva lot,” Luke said when he led his horse out of the bushes and climbed in the saddle. “I’ll try to see what I can do to help you in a little bit, but we need to get as far away from here as we can. When those warriors find out there ain’t no wounded soldiers at the top of that gully, they’re gonna be lookin’ for us in a hurry, especially the one whose pony you’re ridin’.”
    There was no response from Bob, his only focus being directed toward holding on to that pony. Luke took the reins of Bob’s horse and led him across the river, glancing back frequently, half expecting to see the suffering man slide off into the water. Thankful that he hadn’t done so, he turned the paint’s head south to follow a well-traveled trail along the eastern bank. He felt reasonably safe sticking to the common trail, where there were many tracks in the snow, because, like the Indian ponies, his paint was not shod. And he reasoned that the warriors would most likely storm off on the wide trail left by the retreating soldiers, assuming that he would be anxious to catch up with them. Instead of heading back to Lodge Pole Creek, however, he planned to follow the South Fork of the Powder for ten or twelve miles before cutting back to head straight for Fort Fetterman. His foremost thought was to get the wounded soldier to a place where he could get medical attention. In the meantime, he’d do what he could to ease Rivers’s discomfort.
    It was about an hour past sunup when the trail he had been following veered to the east, away from the river. “You doin’ all right, Bob?” Luke asked.
    â€œI’m still here,” came the weak reply.
    â€œGood. I ain’t seen no sign of anybody on our trail, but just in case, I’m gonna leave this trail here—take us into the river for a little bit. The water’s shallow near the bank, so we’ll follow it a ways till we find a good spot to make a camp and let you rest up some.”
    After about a quarter of a mile up the river, he found a suitable spot in a stand of cottonwoods on the east bank. He dismounted, then helped Rivers down. “I’ll have you a fire goin’ in a minute,” Luke said, “soon as I take care of the horses.” With one arm