“Go Slow… It Hurts,” She Moaned—He Whispered, “I’ll Die Before I Hurt You” | Wild West Stories

Chapter 6

She found herself walking to the edge of camp that night. The prairie sky was vast and indifferent, scattered with more stars than she had ever seen in the smoke-choked air of Redemption Creek.

She heard his footsteps before he spoke.

“Too many thoughts?”

She didn’t turn. “I keep thinking about that life. The one I left behind. Sometimes it feels like a nightmare I woke up from. Other times…” She struggled for words. “I wonder if this is the dream.”

He came to stand beside her. Close enough that she could feel his warmth without touching.

“It is real,” he said. “You are real. The life you left — that was the dream. The bad dream that went on too long.”

“I dream sometimes that he finds me. My father. That he drags me back.”

“Then he would face me.”

The simple certainty in his voice made her breath catch.

“And all my people. You are under our protection now.”

“I don’t want to bring trouble to your camp.”

He turned to look at her. In the starlight, his face was serious. “Trouble comes whether we wish it or not. But a life without honor, without protecting those who need protection — this is not life at all.”

A wind swept across the prairie. Sarah shivered.

Joseph removed his blanket and draped it around her shoulders. His hands lingered for just a moment on her arms.

“Come,” he said. “The night grows cold.”

They walked back to camp together — Sarah wrapped in his blanket, her heart beating a rhythm she had never felt before.

—

Three days later, the dogs began barking.

Not the usual greeting bark, but the aggressive, territorial sound reserved for strangers and threats. Sarah was helping Morning Star prepare the evening meal when the first dog gave voice. The second joined. Then the third.

By the time the fifth dog was howling, the camp had transformed. Warriors appeared with bows. Women pulled children into tepees. The easy rhythm of daily life vanished, replaced by the coiled readiness of people who knew that safety was always temporary.

Joseph Running Elk appeared at Sarah’s side so quickly she hadn’t seen him approach. His hand rested on his knife hilt. His body was taut with readiness.

“Stay close to the tepee,” he ordered, and then he was moving toward the camp’s edge where the warriors were gathering.

But Sarah recognized the voice that rang out across the evening air.

Her blood turned to ice.

“I know she’s here. My daughter Sarah Wittman. I’ve come to take her home.”