Broken Trail by Jean Rae Baxter

recovering his balance. He took a second step, and then a third. Pain throbbed in his neck.
    Careful not to trip in the deep ruts, he kept his eyes on the track ahead of him. Only once in a while did he raise his head to estimate their progress. They passed clearings, small woodlots, barns and log cabins. It felt like an eternity before they reached the forest.
    Practically carrying Elijah, Broken Trail left the track and entered the woods. Pushing through bushes and stumbling over uneven ground, he kept going until they came upon an open patch under a big tree. Broken Trail’s neck felt ready to break. He could support Elijah no farther.
    Almost as soon as Broken Trail had lowered him to the ground, Elijah fell into a state resembling sleep. It was notnormal sleep. His eyes twitched. He mumbled and cried out as if in the grip of a terrible nightmare. Sitting beside him and holding both his hands, Broken Trail shivered at the sound of his laboured breathing, for each intake of breath was a groan and each exhalation a hoarse whistle. He may not live through the night, Broken Trail thought. Elijah’s moaning sounded like a death song to his ears.
    A wind sprang up. Clouds covered the moon, and a cold drizzle began to fall. The dried blood on Elijah’s coat softened, becoming sticky to the touch.
    Elijah’s breathing changed. He gasped and gulped for air. Broken Trail squeezed his hands, leaned over him, and whispered in his ear, “Don’t leave me. I need you.” He wanted to say,
I love you,
which was what he meant.
    In response, Elijah’s whole body gave a terrible jerk. Then his breathing became quieter and the moaning began again. Broken Trail watched through the night, listening to his brother’s every breath.

Chapter 13

    AROUND MIDDAY THEY reached the maple tree at the foot of Kings Mountain. Broken Trail pulled aside the vines that covered the entrance to the washout cavity.
    â€œIn there,” he said.
    Elijah stared. “It’s a hole in the ground!”
    â€œIt’s dry and it’s safe.”
    â€œHow do I get in?”
    â€œWriggle in feet first. I reckon you can’t crawl very well with your shoulder hurt.”
    Inside, there was scarcely room to move. Elijah, flat on his back, took up most of the space, leaving Broken Trail huddled with his head touching the exposed roots that formed the rough roof.
    Elijah’s pewter buttons glinted in the faint light that penetrated the vines. Leaning over, Broken Trail unfastened the top button, and then the next.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Elijah asked.
    â€œI need to look at your wound.”
    Elijah lay unresisting while the rest of the buttons were unfastened, wincing only when his linsey-woolsey undershirt was pulled from his skin. Even though it had been softened by rain, the congealed blood stuck like glue.
    The wound was in the soft spot just inside the upper part of his arm. There was no fresh bleeding, just milky seepage and pus. Around the gash, the flesh was hot and swollen. An abscess. That was no surprise.
    What did surprise Broken Trail was the Iroquois medicine bag that hung on a leather thong around his brother’s neck. It was a tiny bag, brightly painted with many symbols. He touched it reverently. How did a white soldier come to possess so sacred an object? It meant that the unseen spirits were protecting Elijah. But why should this be? What story lay behind it? Now was not the right time to ask.
    He said, “You need a poultice on your wound.”
    â€œA poultice! Where are we going to find a poultice around here?”
    â€œI can make one. I just have to mash up the inner bark from a slippery elm. There’s some growing nearby. And there’s white willow, too. Soaking white willow bark in water makes a drink that lessens pain.” He found himself takingpride in showing off his knowledge. “That’s the sort of thing every Oneida knows about.”
    â€œDo what