Page 26 of Sure as Shooting

Chapter Eleven

Men floundered in the icy, boiling waters of the Merced River.

Whit was one of the lucky few who hadn’t yet taken an accidental ice bath in the waters so cold the pools looked nearly black. Whit—and apparently, many of the men—had never experienced anything such as this. At the summits, the snow was fully four feet deep.

They had struggled up steep, slippery mountains through pines so packed the stars only appeared intermittently out of the gloom. Whit glimpsed many black-tailed deer, their tails bluer than the deer of the eastern ranges, and he’d noted immense grizzly tracks as big as elephant’s feet. Groggy riders, deep in sleepy muttering, completely missed the uncertain wagon road and found themselves wallowing in the snowdrifts. Swearing and oaths broke out, and the poor wise horse or mule who had been led astray had to suffer the spurs and additional fatigue of extricating itself.

Huntley then called for volunteers to continue to the Indian encampment, and many were content to remain where they were as the reserve force. Belle as a scout and Whit as the surgeon were required to push ahead, so at daylight they set off on foot along the bank of the Merced. Clambering on sheer, polished granite rocks, they had to occasionally wade into the rushing torrent to avoid being seen by the Grizzly village. Belle and Huntley had determined the village was on a high point at a bend in the river, situated so that it ruled over a vast view of the valley. They were within sight of the Indian campfires. All Indians now found were to be considered “hostiles.”

Wading around an imposing granite outcropping, some men misjudged the depths of the stream or just plain stumbled. Captain Boling flailed about with no foothold, churning like a wagon wheel in the vortex of a pool. Paul Terrell lay on his stomach holding out his rifle butt for Boling to grab ahold of, and was similarly yanked into the racing tide.

It took the brave and reckless Bud Pennington and his roommate Jim Fell to leap in and guide both men to safety. By that time at least five men had taken an impromptuice bath and had icicles shivering from the tips of their hair and the fringes of their buckskins. Huntley called for a short rest while he conferred with Boling.

“Oh, this is hellish,” said Belle. She shivered in her bearskin robe, and she had not been among those who had taken baths. Indeed, clad in the robe and her elk skin moccasins, with her Oriental features, Whit could see where they had mistaken her for Indian.

Whit asked, “Did you not get accustomed to this during your season with the Indians?”

“No, never. I’ve already become very accustomed to Major Ashbury’s fireplace and the lovely warm oven of his kitchen. I did, however, develop a voracious appetite for acorn bread.”

Whit made a face of disgust. “That’s about as despicable as eating dog.”

“Oh, yes!” Belle warmly agreed. “I could never bring myself to touch dog, no matter how starving. I kept being reminded of my devoted dog Jack. He also died fighting off the Indians by the saline lake. I loved that dog like a child. I’d often hug and kiss him. Ned joked that I preferred Jack in my bed rather than him.”

It was shameful that such a vibrant and intelligent woman as Belle had already suffered through so much turmoil in her life. The loss of her husband and child had touched Whit, but the dog was the ultimate insult. “We shall get you a new dog,” he proclaimed heatedly. “In my experience, that is the best way to get over an emotional loss.”

Belle smiled in that wide toothy way that melted Whit’s heart. Belle, really, was the first woman he’d had any relationship with. There were no women in medical school. All the others he’d come in contact with had been his patients. “The dog idea is very thoughtful of you. I should like a large and fluffy one, the better to hug. So if one loses a child, the best thing is to become with child immediately?”

“Well, yes. Especially in these frontiers with even the hardiest of pioneers barely staggering to survive. Women must have as many children as possible to replace the ones they’re liable to lose, and to help bear the labor burden.”

Belle’s face became hardened again. Crossing her arms across her abdomen, she gazed distantly at some cliffs of magnificent height, gauzy in the distance. “Well, not me. I don’t wish to risk enduring all of that anguish again, the chance of losing another child.” She looked back to Whit. “In fact, I was going to ask you. As my physician now, of course. In your procurement of medical supplies, do you ever come across a sponge?”

Whit frowned. “What, for sopping up excess blood and that sort of thing?”

Belle lowered her voice even further, stepping so close to Whit her bear’s fur brushed his hand. “No, I mean a sponge from the sea, to act as a sort of pessary.” She looked furtively about, then locked her eyes onto his. “To prevent pregnancy.”

Whit’s heart nearly stopped at the implications of Belle’s request. In a moment rare for him, he was actually speechless.

Belle continued, “You know. To block the entrance of sperm. The Japanese used balls of bamboo paper, and in Africa plugs of chopped grass, but I’ve heard the Jewish sponge is the most—”

Whit found his tongue. “I know what it’s for, Miss Pennington,” he mocked haughtily. “I’ve also heard of inserting a half of a lemon, which would make sense, as it would block the entrance, and also perhaps the astringency—”

Belle said with irritation, “Yes, and I’ve heard that drinking the water a blacksmith uses to rinse his tools with works, but that would probably cause a miscarriage—after the fact! No, no, it sounds much safer to use a sponge. Perhaps soaked with some nasty agent, to discourage the...” She looked around at the shivering, numb men of their battalion. It looked as though Major Ashbury was sending Boling and Terrell back to the reserve camp. Whit should attend to them to ensure they hadn’t caught fever yet.

“Yes, like mercury,” Whit said sarcastically. He was finally able to ask his foremost question. “If you are asking me this, I am presuming that you intend to engage in the sorts of activities that would render it necessary to use a sponge?”

Belle’s look then became girlish, like a minx ashamed of her bawdy conversation. She fluttered her eyelashes, dusted with ice crystals. “Yes, I was hoping to engage in that sort of—”

Huntley clapped a hand onto Whit’s shoulder. “I’ve ordered Boling and Terrell back to the camp to dry their ammunition. We’re marching now.”

Indeed, everyone shouldered their rifles and ammunition. Some were even starting off at a slow gait up the river’s edge as Whit and Belle smiled sheepishly at each other.

Whit said, “I’d like to know more about your plans—”

But Belle was already turning to follow Huntley, who had started off at a rapid step, quickly overtaking the men in the lead. As scout, she was obligated to keep up with Huntley, and she carried the lightest rifle and little ammunition or other accoutrements. Exhaling and inhaling mightily of the healthy air, Whit steeled himself to follow.

Once past the other battalion “boys,” Huntley increased his speed to an Indian jog trot. Whit saw him look back over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eye, as though he were leading Whit and Belle into some mischief. This hardly seemed the time for high jinks, with the enemy so near at hand, but Whit sped up accordingly, his vanity challenged. Even Belle with her athletic fighting spirit couldn’t be expected to keep up with the King of the Tulareños!

“What is he doing?” Whit angrily demanded of Belle as they ran side by side.