Jessica Raymond is rescued from the Apaches by ex-marshall, Jake Harwood
JESSICA RAYMOND
Jake Harwood eased his large buckskin over the last ridge before the wide expanse began. He started down the hill but halted. A cloud of dust, vanishing in the southwest, caught his eye. Reaching into one of his saddlebags, he pulled out a small field glass and looked through the lens. A band of Apache braves raced their ponies into the afternoon sun. Scanning the sandy area next to the trail that parted the plains, he found an overturned stagecoach.
Cautiously urging his horse forward, Jake drew his gun and trotted toward the stage. He saw nothing moving as he approached. The bright sun and a slight breeze brushed his face. He adjusted his hat. The coach, buried in the sand, was tipped on its side and the driver slumped over a wheel. A dead guard lay face up in front of the stage with an arrow protruding from his chest. The horses had been cut loose. Three passengers, with arrows in their backs, were spread in the soft sand next to the coach’s
door. Their bloody scalps attracted hungry ants. Trunks and baggage were scattered over the sand and the strong box lay empty, busted open.
Jake shifted his deep blue eyes from the bodies and dismounted from his horse. He flinched when he heard a scraping sound.
“Here . . . Help! Please . . . Help!” A choked cry belched from underneath the
dug-in coach.
“Hold on.” Jake ran to the other side of the stage.
The sand moved by the half-buried door. He dug with his large hands. The back of a woman’s head popped up first, then her hands and arms fought for freedom. She shook her long, brown hair and gasped for breath.
“Thank heaven!” She spit out sand and dirt clogged in her throat.
“Are you all right?” Jake stared at the encased young woman.
“I—I think so . . . ooowww!” She tried to wiggle out of the sand but the sharp pain in her shoulder kept her captive.
“Here, let me help you. Just sit still a minute.” Jake bent down, scooped out more sand from around her lower body. “There—that should do it, but don’t move yet.” He put his arms around her waist under her round breasts and tugged her out of the hole.
“Who . . . who are you?” She rested against his chest.
“Jake, Jake Harwood.”
“My arm hurts.” She tried to move it.
“Just take it easy.” He released her. “I’ll get some water.”
She sagged against the sand.
After a few swallows of water, the dazed woman looked over the carnage. “Horrible! Are they all dead?” She gingerly brushed dirt and sand off her dress with her good hand.
“Yes, they’re dead.” Jake poured a little water from his canteen onto his weathered bandanna and handed it to her.
She squeezed the cloth and wiped it across her forehead, around her eyes, and down her cheeks. After patting her lips and neck with the scarf, she bent her head and shook the grit out of her hair. Wincing, she grabbed her shoulder. “I must have bruised this more than I thought.”
“Might be broken. Let me see.” Jake folded his bandanna into a sling and gently fitted her arm into it.
The woman stood up slowly. “That feels better.” They faced each other for a moment without speaking.
He saw her beauty through all the dirt and stress, but just stood and stared.
“I guess I should introduce myself,” she said, “and thank you properly. I’m
Jessica. Jessica Raymond.”
“Glad to meet you, ma’am.” He was surprised at her height.
“It’s Miss . . .”
“Oh—what are you doing in Indian Territory?”
“I’m from New Orleans. I was on my way to California when . . .” She snapped back to what had just happened. Moving away from Jake, she surveyed the bodies strewn about the stagecoach. “I didn’t realize Indians were this brutal.”
“Apaches are raiders.” Jake checked the victims again. “You are very fortunate. They usually scalp and dismember the bodies. There’s nothing we can do for these poor souls.”
“Shouldn’t we bury them?”
“I’ll have to tell the sheriff first.”
“Why did they attack us?” she asked.
“Probably for the horses . . . and gold. The cash box was open.”
“How would they know there was gold?”
Jake looked closely at her. “I don’t know—but we’d better get into town. Adobe Center is not far.”
The afternoon sun started to lower on the horizon as Jake helped Jessica up on his horse. The buckskin handled his double load easily over the grooved and worn trail toward the small town. Neither person spoke much, but Jake’s curiosity peaked about the pretty lady from New Orleans pressing against him in the saddle.
Story inspired by life of the author's great grandfather, a Black Cowboy who kidnapped his Native American bride after a cattle drive from Waco, TX to Dodge City, KS. Their story, him a master horseman and her a trained to be a healer with herbs and
