A Man Called Sunday Read Online Free PDF Page B

and set out along the riverbank.
    He knew his prospects for finding deer or antelope were pretty slim, but he saw quite a few holes in the bank that looked like muskrat lodges. He wasn’t partial to muskrat, but it was nourishment, and that was the important thing at the moment. He had eaten it many times before when there was nothing else available. The meat had a taste similar to that of rabbit and the Indians seemed to enjoy it. “It’ll do till I find somethin’ better to hunt,” he declared.
    When he approached a bend in the river where a colony of muskrats appeared to have built a series of lodges, he crouched in the brush near the water and waited. The little beaverlike animals were most active early in the mornings and early evenings, but they were often about any time of day, so he waited. After a wait of approximately half an hour, he detected a stirring in a patch of lily pads, so he rose to one knee to watch it more intently. In another few moments, a muskrat appeared among the pads where it had been feeding. Luke notched an arrow and drew back his bowstring.
There’s dinner,
he thought as he released the arrow.
    * * *
    They remained there by the South Fork of the Powder for the rest of that day. Luke made bandages out of an old shirt he carried in his saddlebag, and fashioned a splint for Bob’s leg from cottonwood branches and straps made from muskrat hides, donated by several more of the little four- or five-pound critters. While the Cheyenne pony seemed well rested, Luke’s paint needed the extra day before starting out on the long ride back to Fort Fetterman. As for Rivers, he appeared to be responding favorably to Luke’s care, although he was still in a great deal of pain. The operation had succeeded in relieving much of the pressure around the wounds, and the nourishment served to lift his spirits enough to question his benefactor.
    â€œHow’d you know where to find me?” Bob asked while sucking the last little bit of meat from a tiny bone.
    â€œOne of the fellows in your company told me where he had seen you last,” Luke replied. “He said he saw you when you got hit.”
    â€œI knew the captain wouldn’t run off without sendin’ somebody back to get me,” Bob said, although he had thought he had been abandoned all during that long night when he and Foster had hidden in the gully. “I don’t reckon I’ve thanked you for riskin’ your neck to come after me. At least, I don’t remember it if I did. I was outta my head there for a while.”
    Luke shrugged, but made no reply. He saw no purpose in telling Bob that Captain Egan had not sent him, but had written Rivers off as an unfortunate casualty of the botched attack on the village. Able to concentrate on something other than his wound now, Bob studied the sandy-haired man in buckskins closely. “I don’t recollect ever seein’ you around before you showed up in that gully last night. Tell you the truth, I thought you mighta been an angel.”
    â€œI ain’t ever been mistook for one of them before,” Luke said. “I’m one of the new scouts that signed on back at Fort Laramie.”
    â€œWell, mister, I’m mighty glad you did. What is your name, again?”
    â€œSunday,” Luke replied. “Luke Sunday.”
    â€œWell, I’m pleased to know you,” Bob said, extending his hand. “And I owe you a helluva lot.” Then he repeated the name. “Sunday,” he said. “Maybe you ain’t no angel, but that’s close enough.”
    Luke shrugged and shook his hand. “Maybe you’d better wait till I get you back to Fort Fetterman before you thank me too much.”
    The next morning, Luke helped Bob into the saddle again and they set out on a course almost directly east. Luke figured they were roughly eighty or ninety miles due west of Fort Fetterman. Although he had hoped to make