Trail of Golden Dreams by Stacey Coverstone

his calf.  His black eyes narrowed at her as he
held the knife in front of her face.  For a split second, she thought he
was going to cut out her gizzard after all.  The other two jumped off
their mounts and strode to his side.
    “You dig out
bullet,” the buck told her matter-of-factly.
    Her mouth
gaped.  “What? I don’t think I can.”
    She was surprised
when the youngest Apache spoke as clear English as she’d ever heard.  He
said, “If you don’t, Taza will lose his arm.”
    “Taza? 
That’s your name?” she asked, peering into the injured man’s face.  His
forehead was wide and his cheekbones high.  His nose was crooked, like it
had been broken.
    Nodding, he sat
cross-legged on the hard ground.  He slashed open the rest of his shirt
with the knife and then held the blade out to her.  It glinted in the sun
when he turned it over.  “Do now.”
    It felt like she’d
just been punched in the stomach.  “Don’t you have a woman somewhere who can
help you?  Or one of you can remove the bullet,” she pleaded to his
friends.  She searched their faces, but they only stared back, blankly.
    “You,” Taza stated
firmly.  The way he said it led her to believe he was a man used to
getting his way and not being argued with. 
    Josie
sighed.  She owed these men her life.  How could she refuse to
help?  She climbed off Traveler and tied him to a bush, because he wasn’t
as well behaved as the Indian ponies.  Then she knelt on the ground in
front of Taza and accepted the knife.  “I’ve never done nothing like this
before,” she warned.  “You could bleed to death if I cut a vein or an
artery.  Do you understand what I’m saying?  There’s nothing I could
do out here to stop the bleeding.  We’re far from a doctor.”
    “Understand,” Taza
answered.  He gazed, stone-faced, into her eyes, causing her to shudder
under their intensity.
    “Have you got any
water on you?” she asked, glancing between the three of them.  “I should
clean this knife.  It doesn’t look so clean.”
    “We have no
water,” the young one answered.  “I have mescal.”  He pulled a small
bottle out of a bag that was tied around his waist.  When he handed it to
her, she popped the cork and poured some of the liquor over the knife, and then
wiped it good with her shirtsleeve.  Then she did something she’d never
done before—tipped the bottle up and took a long drink.
    “My hand needs
steadying,” she explained, while wiping her mouth with the back of her
hand.  Her lungs suddenly felt like they were going to explode.  She
coughed, and her eyes filled with tears.  The liquor burned her throat
from the inside out.  The Indians chuckled, including the injured man,
Taza.
    “Alright,” she
said, once she’d recovered sufficiently, “you’d better tell me what to do.”
    Taza picked up the
mescal bottle and guzzled the remaining liquid then said, “Poke inside hole
with blade.  When you feel lead ball, fish it out.”
    “Easy,” the
youngest brave offered, as he crossed his arms over his chest.
    She tossed him a
sideways glance.  “Sure.  Easy,” she repeated.  There was no
hiding the tremors in her hands.
    “Dig quick,” Taza
suggested.
    Josie met his dark
gaze and then let her eyes swing to the wound.  She inhaled deeply and
stuck the blade into the angry flesh before losing her courage.  Taza’s
muscles tensed, and his eyes fluttered shut.  His lips drew back, but he
didn’t scream or make any noise whatsoever. She peered at the young Apache, who
dropped to one knee at Taza’s shoulder.  He nodded, encouraging her to
continue. 
    She nodded
back.  With all the courage she could muster, she pushed the blade down
into the hole and began to probe.  After several minutes of tentative
probing, perspiration peppered her forehead and salt water dripped into her
eye.  For a moment, her eyes went blurry and she thought she might
faint.  This was much more difficult than she had