Savage Dawn

He was shivering with fever.

He was a person in need of help.

But she recalled the tales of Indian atrocties she had read about. Wouldn’t she be placing herself in mortal danger even by staying there, much less getting closer to him, to offer help?

He rolled again to his other side, so that his face was now facing her, and she gasped in horror when she saw that his eyes were open. He was looking straight at her.

She expected him to leap up and come after her, perhaps use that big, fat knife that rested in a sheath at his right side.

But instead his eyes closed again and he seemed to drift off, perhaps too feverish to have even recognized her as being white.

She started to run back to her horse, but again his eyes opened and he reached a shaky hand out toward her. The

n, to her amazement, he spoke in perfect English.

“Help me,” the man gasped, looking at her through fever-bright eyes.

Recalling once again how ill she had been with the measles, and seeing the plea in this warrior’s midnight dark eyes, Nicole knew that she could not just leave him there. He was defenseless against roaming forest animals, as well as enemies that might walk on two feet.

She could not help wondering if he had been banished from his village because of his illness. Did his own people not care whether he lived or died?

If that was the case, he had been treated with cruel inhumanity. She felt she must prove to him that not all mankind was heartless and uncaring.

Again she heard the howl of a wolf, surely the very same one she had heard earlier. Again she wondered if it was an Indian, who might be telling others that a white woman had found their sick brother.

Would they sweep down on her and stop her from helping him? She would not doubt that at all.

Today she had witnessed the evil man was capable of.

Those who were white had killed many of their own skin color. Would not men of red skin kill their own if they felt threatened by him?

And they would kill her just as heartlessly.

Ignoring her worst fears, she stepped closer to the Indian. His eyes had closed again. Was he pretending to be asleep, so that he could grab her when she got close enough?

Or was he truly asleep again, the illness robbing him of his strength, as it did when she had had the same disease?

Her heart pounded as she stepped even closer to him. She stopped just a heartbeat away from him and gazed down.

She now realized that he was probably in his mid or late twenties, with a body that most any white man would kill for.

Such muscles, such smooth skin, oh, so much of everything that awoke feelings within Nicole she never knew existed!

She had to forget all that for the time being and do what she could to help him. She just hoped that her attempt to be a Good Samaritan would not end in her own death.

She ripped a portion of her cotton petticoat away and took it to the stream to wet it.

She returned to where the Indian still lay so quietly on the blanket. She wondered if she had lost her sanity, getting so close to an Indian, who could kill her with one plunge of his powerful knife.

She saw where he had put down his quiver of arrows, and then looked at the lovely bow that rested not far from where he lay.

Now that she looked around her, she saw his horse tethered amongst some nearby trees. On it was a buckskin bag that must hold more of his belongings. She also saw a rifle in the gun boot.

Frightened at the sight of the weapons, Nicole swallowed hard and fell to her knees beside him.

Gently, she applied the wet rag to his fevered brow. As she wiped it, his eyes flew open and one of his hands reached up and grabbed her wrist.

She gasped as she felt the true strength of the hand that held her wrist. Had he tricked her into coming near just so he could grab her?