The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

200: Magpie

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta.  This is the last chapter in Book 2: Lynch's Boys.  I will be posting Book 3: The Road Home in another book, as I have learned that there is apparently a 200 chapter cap here in WP. So just return to my profile and you'll see Book 3.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

Runs Laughing carefully picked her way through the shrubby creosote and wind-swept pinions. It was a chilly mid-morning, and she clutched her little water bag with clammy fingers. She hadn't really wanted to haul water. The full skin would weigh quite a bit, and there was nothing fun about hauling it back to camp. She was glad she didn't have far to go to return to her sister's lodge.

Insisting on making the short trip alone had seemed like a good idea. And the entire time she'd quarreled with Still Water Woman over it, as she had insisted she was big enough to do alone, that seven winters was grown enough to do something as simple as fetch a pail of water, she hadn't really believed that her sister would relent and agree to let her go.

So after all those brave words, there was no way to back out when the task lay before her for the taking.

She knew she'd have to be careful. Farther upstream, she knew there had been trouble. If the lodge had not been just on the other side of the copse of trees on the low rise, close enough that a shout could be heard, she knew they would never have allowed her to go alone to the creek. White men nearby made everyone nervous. News had traveled fast of fighting and discord, further out towards the place where the sun set. So she knew they wouldn't stay here in this spot any longer than they had to. Their little band would move on and join up with the rest of the tribe soon.

She heard chattering in the trees and a flash of black and white. A magpie angrily warned her away, scolding her from the branches of a nearby willow. Do not fly at me, little sister. I mean you no harm. Throwing up an arm to protect her face should the bird decide she'd come too close, she hurried on, listening to the sounds of the splashing current down below the carved edge of the bank.

Gasping, she stopped, her leather-shod feet nearly skidding to a halt in the sandy, rocky earth. She ducked down into the scrubby brush.

There was a man lying sprawled on the riverbank ahead. His pale skin was colorless and his clothing sodden and heavy with water. She saw no blood on him, and wondered if he'd drowned and been washed up by the creek. She drew her knife, the one Eagle Bone had given her. It was small enough to fit easily in her hand, but it was sharp. Does he breathe?

The river would not have put him up here. She leaned forward, holding her own breath and listening to her heart pound. What if he is not dead? The other man her brother had found had not been dead. Dying. But alive. She remembered the yellow scalp Eagle Bone had brought to the lodge. He had said it was from the man called Galloway. They had dealt with Galloway before. He was not a good man, and she was glad Eagle Bone had made sure he was dead.

He is not breathing. She raised up, straining her eyes to see a bit further, to see if he was moving at all. He is dead. Look at his face, it is the color of the sky on a cold, wet day. She crept forward, crouching and gripping her knife, ready to run. I have never been this close to a white man. Unlike the short, sandy-colored scalp her brother had brought home, this man's hair was long and straight like the hair of The People, but the color of sunshine. Did he know the Bad Man? Did they come here together? Were they brothers? Friends?

A fine, golden fuzz roughened the man's jaw and she stared at it, curiosity making her reckless. He didn't look like anyone she'd ever seen. She reached out a trembling finger and felt the strange, silky down on his impossibly pale, blue-lipped face, her boldness making her feel brave, like she was counting coup. What if his eyes open? What then?  His skin was icy. No. He is dead. White man cannot open their eyes when they're dead any more than we can. Can they?

His hands were sprawled to either side of him, empty and limp, and his blue fingernails showed clearly against the whiteness of his skin. She started to wonder if he'd died of cold, and then she noticed his wrists. Bruises and angry abrasions marred the skin peeking out of his coat sleeves. A swollen cut gaped in the heel of one of his hands and his knuckles were bruised and scraped. She gasped, looking around worriedly. He has been bound recently and struggled. Maybe he fought with someone. He is an escaped captive. Whose? What if they're still here?

What if they are looking for him?

She glanced back down to his still face, then jumped back with a startled cry. The sodden buckskin coat buttoned over his chest had risen with faintest hint of an inhalation. Scrambling backward, she landed on her rump, holding her knife out before her. This one is alive.

Thanks for reading!  If you enjoyed this book, please let me know by giving me a star or a comment!  Book 3: The Road Home will pick up on my regular schedule, on Monday right here. I appreciate your support!