He didn’t stretch his arms out over the covers—he knew that she was gone. How strange, he thought, to have had a night so sweet and spectacular, and to awaken now, feeling so pained and miserable! She still wouldn’t let him speak. She didn’t want to hear the truth. She wouldn’t believe anything ill of a man dressed in a Confederate uniform. He punched his pillow bitterly, wishing he could gain just a few more minutes’ sleep. But thoughts of her plagued him, and he couldn’t close his eyes. He jerked up suddenly. He had heard something. Not Christa. He didn’t smell coffee brewing. In fact, he hadn’t heard her since she had so silently risen and left the tent. “Jesus!” he gasped out leaping off the bed, for a bloodied hand was reaching up, dragging the covers off him. Robert Black Paw, huddled, broken, bleeding, had come to him. Crawled upon his belly to reach him. Jeremy cried out again, shouting for help. He lifted the Indian scout who had been his friend and companion for so long, trying to find the wound.
