Waking up

There was a pasty taste in my mouth. My lips cracked when I opened them, and I tasted the hint of copper and warmth against the slip of flesh. My teeth felt gritty and my head hurt and I felt woozy. Wet mud and grass clung to my cheek as I pushed myself upward, trying to get my bearings. I looked into the closed eyes of the wounded Warrior. It all came rushing back to me with brilliant clarity. I was very embarrassed at having given in and lost consciousness at such a time. I was glad, however, that it appeared it had not lasted long and had gone unnoticed.

Now, what to do. For a moment, a thought interrupted and said run. But run for what? My freedom? For help? I wanted to help him. I was afraid he would die if I didn't do something. I owed him so much, my life for starters. We were out in this great vast nothingness and it is not safe out here. We both needed to get to safety, and I wasn't about to leave him alone, nor take that path again if I didn't have to. My insides filled with compassion, and I tried my best to look past the blood to see what I might tend first.

Looking past the blood was like trying to look over the endless grass and see the dirt beneath. I did want to get up and walk just to keep the queasy feeling at bay, but I swallowed many times and continued on with my intentions. I wish I knew more, but all I could figure out was to try to at least clean away some of the muck and blood and grime. There was nothing there with us. Not a pack, or any kind of supplies that I could see. I had nothing. Except my dress. The beautiful feminine once white dress from Goldie. It was beyond white now, stained in so many places with the badges of my travels and experiences. I slipped the small blade she had given me from the hold in my boot and started to saw at the hem. I felt so weak, so helpless. The first tear finally came and I pushed the blade into the mud beside me and pulled apart the edges.

I looked up just in time to see the Brave Warriors eyes fluttering open. Or one of them, for the other was crusted and coated with thick brownish blood, and it only half opened. Rising from the gash that marked the source of blood was a knot the size of a redfruit. My head hurt just looking at it. Mud and blood matted his hair and while his other cheek seemed to bear those multicolored scars of the men of the plains, it was so encrusted with dirt and gore that it looked like a cracked oil painting of a rainbow. My first words were..."Are you all right?" which sounded so feeble and foolish even to my ears. My next words were "thank you." I don't believe he heard, or registered any of them.

His first words were....intense. The people of the plains, the wagon people, speak differently than I do. It is a rough, clipped version of my own speech, and I wonder if it is due to a life lived outdoors. His voice was deep, raw, savage. His words inspired a bevy of emotions. He threatened me if I ran, and I was instantly compelled to assure him I would not leave him alone. As he continued, in such rich, vivid, detail, I felt horrified at the picture painted, and at the same time quite comfortable in what he needed of me. I sensed he was not a man that simply stabbed and hoped to kill. No, he - knew - how to kill. And he could describe it in rather picturesque sentences. Yes, I was afraid, but not for my life, for the man had just risked everything for ..me. I was afraid for what might happen if I didn't do what was needed.

Both of us might die.

I was immensely relieved that he knew how to tend his wounds. Helping him was easy, for he is very direct and his instructions are clear. I thought he would make a wonderful teacher; a random thought that flitted through my still fuzzy brain while I was tearing my dress into patches and strips to be used for wadding and bandaging. There was no sorrow in the act, giving up about the only thing I could offer was the least I could do. With fresh crimson flowing and soaking into the muddied white that I held against his skin, I didn't even balk. Forgive me for feeling such a sense of accomplishment in the face of such courage, but I did. The amount of blood around us, on him, on me, was staggering. I knew I was as spent and exhausted as I had ever felt, and I could only imagine how drained he must feel. He didn't let it keep him down though, not my wild crazy brave man; hefting that heavy heavy saddle to his shoulder without a pause.

And then he walked off.