Log cabin, wilderness, 1800s. Wife just found her new and not very close husband (arranged marriage, populate the country sort of thing) killed in a bear trap (it happened ok?? ;)) and is discovered covered in his blood by a half white half Indian hunter
Here's what I wrote!
The panic was setting in. At first it had been shocking, then horrifying, and now she was numb. She balled up her fists to rub out the stain soaking into her apron, but it spread to her dress and coated her arms, bright red and sticky. Sobs caught in her throat, awful gasping noises that never made it past her lips.
His body lay prone in the crackling dry leaves, the face turned toward her, white and convulsed in a terrible grimace. His hands were also soaked in blood. Caroline steeled herself and inspected his leg.
It was no longer caught in the bear trap—Roger had managed to open the teeth and free his foot. The half of her brain still running in circles barely took in everything she saw, but the other half—the half that still remembered her training—began to diagnose. He can't have been dead more than a couple of hours. The bones are clearly broken and he lost a lot of blood, but surely not enough to kill a man as strong as Roger. Why did he not bind the wound with a cloth and start back home? The foot was badly injured and this place was miles away from the cabin, but he had died inches from the trap. He had not even tried to run.
It was no longer caught in the bear trap—Roger had managed to open the teeth and free his foot. The half of her brain still running in circles barely took in everything she saw, but the other half—the half that still remembered her training—began to diagnose. He can't have been dead more than a couple of hours. The bones are clearly broken and he lost a lot of blood, but surely not enough to kill a man as strong as Roger. Why did he not bind the wound with a cloth and start back home? The foot was badly injured and this place was miles away from the cabin, but he had died inches from the trap. He had not even tried to run.
The weak half was taking over. Caroline gripped her arms and rocked back and forth, fighting the darkness at the edges of her vision. She was deep in the forest in a place she'd never seen before, surrounded by thick evergreens looming ominously above her.
She was no longer sobbing, and the silence thrummed in her ears. Alone. She was utterly alone.
She was no longer sobbing, and the silence thrummed in her ears. Alone. She was utterly alone.
The night before had been the longest of her life. Lying awake awaiting Roger's return—but that was nothing new. Thinking about what she would say when he walked through the door, how she would break the news that she intended to leave him forever, and hoping he wouldn't break her—that was new. And so was this feeling, something like terror mingled with grief and guilty relief at seeing the mangled body of her husband cold on the forest floor.
There was no possibility of carrying Roger's body back to the cabin without a horse. Could she dig a grave in the frozen ground? Wolves roamed these woods. She shivered. Perhaps a pile of rocks was the best she could do for the man who had provided for her these last two years.
A snapping sound cracked from behind and Caroline grabbed the Winchester, scrambling to her feet. She glanced around, but a lifetime in the Wyoming Territory had taught her that by the time you lay eyes on something, it's already too late. A telltale rustling indicated that something lurked behind a thicket about ten yards away. She cocked the lever and brought the thicket into her sights.
A small tree trembled and Caroline moved her finger a hairsbreadth from the trigger. From behind the tree ambled the nonchalant figure of Maysie, their horse. A sigh shuddered through Caroline's body as she lowered the barrel. Of course. She'd been following the horseshoe tracks in the snow all morning and should have expected to see her. Roger must have dismounted before stumbling into the trap.
Assuming he had stumbled. How was it that he came to be in this neck of the woods anyhow? It might not even be their land.
"Are you Mrs. Ashcraft?"
Caroline jerked the rifle up so fast it nearly slammed into her face. A man stood only fifteen feet away from her, his own rifle idle by his side.
"Who the hell are you?" Roger's language must have rubbed off on her more than she'd thought.
The man raised both hands but stepped closer. "I'm Benjamin Cloud, and this is my land. Please tell me why you are here and who this man is."
Once the shock of surprise wore off, Caroline noticed that he wasn't dressed like any farmers or ranchers she'd ever been acquainted with. His trousers seemed normal enough, but he wore bright blue suspenders over a buckskin shirt, and there were beaded mocassins on his feet. His face was cleanshaven and a long braid of hair fell across one shoulder. To look at him, he was obviously a middle-aged Arapaho attempting to dress like a white man. But when he spoke, his voice had no trace of an accent. He could have been one of Roger's many cousins.
Even in her high-strung state, Caroline couldn't believe the man looked threatening. She lowered the rifle slightly and gave the shortest explanation possible. "I was looking for my husband. I found him." Mr. Cloud approached Roger's body, crouched to examine it, then turned to inspect the trap.
Suddenly, Caroline burst out, "Is that your trap? Are you the one who set it?" She was shaking again. "Do you see what you've done? My husband is dead, and it's because of you!"
Mr. Cloud's eyes, cold and clear, turned to meet hers. "I have the right to do whatever I please with my own land. But I did not set this trap."
Nothing made sense at the moment. Why had Roger come to this place at all? During all the hours she'd tracked Maysie's prints, they'd never wandered. Roger had known exactly where he was headed. But he hadn't brought a trap with him. She would have seen it when he set out.
"He was not killed by this trap," Mr. Cloud's voice was soft and calming. "Perhaps he had a heart condition? The shock might have killed him."
The logical half of Caroline's brain snapped the pieces together and acknowledged that this man's conclusion made more sense than any scenario she'd been able to conjure up to that point. But it did not make her feel warm toward him. "However it happened, he's dead now." She fought down the wave of desperation in the pit of her stomach and stopped short of the words, And what is to become of me?
She was a strong woman, the daughter of a pioneer family that had left everything they knew to settle this raw territory, and she would not allow her knees to buckle. Especially in front of this stranger. Besides, had she not spent the whole night before planning her life without Roger? Now fantasy would have to be put into practice.
A small tree trembled and Caroline moved her finger a hairsbreadth from the trigger. From behind the tree ambled the nonchalant figure of Maysie, their horse. A sigh shuddered through Caroline's body as she lowered the barrel. Of course. She'd been following the horseshoe tracks in the snow all morning and should have expected to see her. Roger must have dismounted before stumbling into the trap.
Assuming he had stumbled. How was it that he came to be in this neck of the woods anyhow? It might not even be their land.
"Are you Mrs. Ashcraft?"
Caroline jerked the rifle up so fast it nearly slammed into her face. A man stood only fifteen feet away from her, his own rifle idle by his side.
"Who the hell are you?" Roger's language must have rubbed off on her more than she'd thought.
The man raised both hands but stepped closer. "I'm Benjamin Cloud, and this is my land. Please tell me why you are here and who this man is."
Once the shock of surprise wore off, Caroline noticed that he wasn't dressed like any farmers or ranchers she'd ever been acquainted with. His trousers seemed normal enough, but he wore bright blue suspenders over a buckskin shirt, and there were beaded mocassins on his feet. His face was cleanshaven and a long braid of hair fell across one shoulder. To look at him, he was obviously a middle-aged Arapaho attempting to dress like a white man. But when he spoke, his voice had no trace of an accent. He could have been one of Roger's many cousins.
Even in her high-strung state, Caroline couldn't believe the man looked threatening. She lowered the rifle slightly and gave the shortest explanation possible. "I was looking for my husband. I found him." Mr. Cloud approached Roger's body, crouched to examine it, then turned to inspect the trap.
Suddenly, Caroline burst out, "Is that your trap? Are you the one who set it?" She was shaking again. "Do you see what you've done? My husband is dead, and it's because of you!"
Mr. Cloud's eyes, cold and clear, turned to meet hers. "I have the right to do whatever I please with my own land. But I did not set this trap."
Nothing made sense at the moment. Why had Roger come to this place at all? During all the hours she'd tracked Maysie's prints, they'd never wandered. Roger had known exactly where he was headed. But he hadn't brought a trap with him. She would have seen it when he set out.
"He was not killed by this trap," Mr. Cloud's voice was soft and calming. "Perhaps he had a heart condition? The shock might have killed him."
The logical half of Caroline's brain snapped the pieces together and acknowledged that this man's conclusion made more sense than any scenario she'd been able to conjure up to that point. But it did not make her feel warm toward him. "However it happened, he's dead now." She fought down the wave of desperation in the pit of her stomach and stopped short of the words, And what is to become of me?
She was a strong woman, the daughter of a pioneer family that had left everything they knew to settle this raw territory, and she would not allow her knees to buckle. Especially in front of this stranger. Besides, had she not spent the whole night before planning her life without Roger? Now fantasy would have to be put into practice.
#
2 comments:
cliche, cliche and more cliches...
If you’ve got a better idea, feel free to post a prompt 🙂
Post a Comment