AUGUST 24th, 1885
I hardly moved from the chair beside Woody's bed but to sponge his forehead to keep him cool. He writhes in pain and drifts in and out of conscious. His fever still rages. My knees are skinned and raw from my prayers for God to spare him.
It was past supper, and I was sitting at his side trying to keep my fingers busy when I heard the approach of the wagon. I let my mending fall to the floor and my shoulders pitched forward with relieved sobs, but I made my eyes dry by the time Dr. Macy and Bug entered the house.
"The wound itself isn't serious, but there's an infection," the doctor said shaking his head grimly when he finally left Woody's side. I had suspected as much, but it was a blow all the same. He gave me some poultice for the wound and an infusion to draw the fever.
"Will he be all right?" I dared myself to ask.
"We should know more in the morning," was all he could say, and poor Bug, who had ridden almost 24 hours solemnly climbed back into the wagon to return Dr. Macy to Bozeman. I fear for his safety.
I tried to get Woody to drink the infusion, but he would not take it, and I cried in frustration. The poultice seems to soothe him, though, and I applied some to the wound later. He reached out in his feverdream and grabbed my wrist until my hand turned red. Then he collapsed against the bed, and lay so still, that I held my breath and feared the worst. He stirred then, and I allowed myself to sink back into my chair with relief.
I have lost all track of time. I will put this away for a few hours and try to sleep.
AUGUST 25th, 1885
No change. The fever still rages. He drank some of Dr. Macy's infusion, and then slept for most of the day, but later, he was moaning in delirium.
Bug returned and has collapsed in the barn with exhaustion.
I have not slept, nor will I.
AUGUST 26th, 1885
All hope seems lost. He has drained of all color, and his breathing is shallow and uneven. It is only a matter of time. I sit and wait for the end.
For the first time in my life, I hate this God-forsaken place.
AUGUST 27th, 1885
I sat at his bed most of the day. I have neither eaten nor slept, but I kept a vigil. No man should die alone, least of all this man.
It was after noon, when I went to fetch a cool rag to wipe his forehead. I thought I heard something, a stirring, but I ignored. Then again it came. My name! "Jo..."
I knelt at his bedside and took his hand in mine. "Yes, it's me, Woody! It's me!" but I could scarcely talk through the tears.
"I'm thirsty..." he said, and I fairly flew outside to fetch him some cold water, which I helped him to drink.
His eyelids began to drop, and he drifted back into a sleep. But his fever has broken! That is the important thing! He will be all right.
He is still sleeping, and very soundly, too. I suppose now I should sleep, too, but my mind races too much!
AUGUST 30th, 1885
Woody has awakened, and he seems to be past danger, but he is still quite weak that he can barely lift a spoon to his mouth. His confinement has made him restless and irritable, and when I was feeding him some broth, he barked at me that it was too hot. Being at the brink of exhaustion, I barked back that he could damn well feed himself.
He softened, and reached out for my arm. He had the most earnest look on his face, and he said very gently, "I'm sorry, Jo."
Jo! The familiarity of it sent a shiver through me. Jo!
AUGUST 31st, 1885
Here is the story as it was told to me:
On the dreadful night of the 23rd, Woody left the Seely place before supper. The storm came up while he was on his way back here. Being closer to home than to the Seely's, he decided to go on rather than turn back.
He found that by the time he reached the ford, the river was too swollen to cross there, so he followed it upstream to try and find a narrower place. He had almost doubled back to Sweet Grass by the time he found a place, and by that time, he could barely see for the rain. He knew there was an abandoned homestead up ahead, so he determined to stop there until the storm passed.
It was then he saw he was being followed. He had turned to call out, to ask the man if he needed shelter, but saw only the outstretched arm with the gun at the end. Woody was unarmed, and there was no time to run. The man fired and sped away. It was only a miracle that Woody's horse carried him all the way home.
Sheriff Carver came out from town, having heard about the shooting. He is a decent man, but a realistic one, and we both knew that nothing could be done. Was it one of Henry Slokum's men trying to scare us off the land? Or was it something far more sinister? Does this have something to do with the ugly gossip in town? I shudder to think.
SEPTEMBER 3rd, 1885
Lily has come to stay while Matt Seely is in Bozeman, and she is a godsend. There are a mountain of chores to be done, and she is still able to help with mending and the like, although she has grown quite round! It agrees with her, too.
Woody is managing the best he can, although he hobbles around clutches his side from time to time. He is easily frustrated and often ill-tempered, but we all understand and are trying to have patience.
I was sitting with Lily today as we worked on some sewing. She is making a little quilt for the baby. I haven't been to Sweet Grass in many days, and I asked her what news there was.
"Why, none to speak of," she said far too quickly.
"There is something, isn't there? What do they say of the shooting?"
She kept her eyes on the sewing and spoke very slowly. "There is a whispering that it was meant to be a warning to you."
"What kind of warning?" I asked her.
"About Bug. It's not too long ago that those homesteaders were killed by some Choctaw. People in town think he's trouble."
"You don't think that, do you, Lily?"
Her eyes grew wide, and her hand flew to her heart, "O, no! Bug is only decent and kind. He would never..." Her words died in her throat, and she turned her eyes back to her sewing.
We kept to our sewing, and then she gave out a little ruffle of a laugh. "Baby is very busy today! Here," and she took my hand and placed it on her round belly. "Can you feel that?" I could, and I smiled while she lit up into a smile. "I do so hope it's a girl. She'll be here soon," she said and leaned back in her chair, shutting her eyes. "Everything will be all right then."
For her sake I hope it will be.
