Free Feather in the Wind by Madeline Baker

said. She opened the door wider. “You’re gonna catch your death standing out there in the cold.”
    “I need help,” Susannah said. “The man with me is badly hurt.”
    “Go get him, Abe,” Hester said. She gave him a little shove. “Hurry along now.”
    “Dammit, woman…”
    “Abe Micklin, you do what I say, and you do it now!”
    “I’ll go with you,” Susannah said.
    “Damn right,” Abe muttered. “Can he ride, or do I need to hitch up the wagon?”
    “A wagon would be a big help.”
    Grumbling loudly, Abe lumbered off to hitch up the team.
    “Come inside, dearie,” Hester said. “Let me get you something dry to wear.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Come along.”
    Susannah stood inside the bedroom doorway while Hester rummaged in a trunk at the foot of the bed.
    Hester looked to be in her early forties, Susannah thought. She had black hair just turning gray, sharp brown eyes and the wrinkled skin common to women who spent a lifetime on the plains. Susannah glanced around. The house was small but clean, sparsely furnished with a few pieces of rough-hewn furniture. Rag rugs covered the floor, cheerful gingham curtains fluttered at the window. A bouquet of wildflowers arranged in a rusty tin can made a bright spot of color on the kitchen table.
    “Here we go,” Hester said. Rising clumsily to her feet, she handed Susannah a warm wool dress and a pair of boots.
    “I reckon that dress’ll be a mite big on you, dearie, but at least it’s dry.”
    “Thank you so much.”
    Susannah had changed and was ready to go by the time Abe returned with the wagon.
    He was a crusty old coot, Susannah mused. Tall and fence-post thin, he sat hunched over on the wagon seat, his battered hat pulled low on his forehead. He had skin like leather and pale-green eyes that didn’t miss a trick. She thought he looked like an old Ichabod Crane.
    They reached Black Wind a short time later. Susannah jumped from the wagon seat and rushed to his side, praying that he was still alive.
    “A redskin!” Abe exclaimed, coming up beside her. “You brought me out here for a dirty redskin!”
    “He’s hurt. He needs help.”
    “I ain’t helpin’ no Injun. And I sure as hell ain’t havin’ one in my house.”
    “Please, mister, he’ll die.”
    “Good riddance, I say.”
    “You’ve got to help him,” Susannah said. “He’s…he’s my husband.”
    “Husband!” He stared at her in disbelief.
    “Yes, he’s a scout for the army at Fort Collier,” Susannah said, making the story up as she went along. “We were on our way back to the fort when we were attacked by Indians. My husband was shot.”
    “Scout, huh? Long way from the fort, ain’t ya?”
    “I got lost trying to find my way back.”
    Abe studied her for several moments, his eyes narrowed, his expression dubious.
    “Su-san-nah?”
    She glanced at Black Wind. He was looking up at her, his eyes dark mirrors of pain. And then, slowly, his eyelids closed again. Fearing he had died, she knelt beside Black Wind and felt for his pulse. Thank God, he was still alive.
    “Please, Mister Micklin. We need help.”
    “All right, all right,” Abe said. “Long as he’s an Army scout…” He thrust the rifle into Susannah’s hands, muttering under his breath as he did so.
    He lifted Black Wind with remarkable ease for such a skinny man, displaying a wiry strength that took Susannah by surprise. Black Wind appeared to be unconscious, which was probably a blessing, Susannah mused as Abe plopped him over one shoulder and carried him to the wagon. She hurried forward and lowered the tailgate, stood there chewing on her lower lip as Abe placed Black Wind, none too gently, into the bed of the wagon.
    “I think I’ll ride back here, with him,” she said.
    “Suit yourself,” Abe muttered. Taking up the stallion’s reins, he tied the horse to the rear of the wagon, leaving Susannah to climb into the bed of the wagon as best she could.
    She put the rifle beside Black Wind,