Marin Sinclair, Book 2
Date Published: 09/15/2025
Publisher: RabbitHole LLC
—“It’s likely the same guys,” Franklin
whispered. “You need to go for help. Get word to Sergeant Blue
Eyes.”
“I can’t go without you,” she said, and Franklin took her hand and pressed it against his side. When she pulled her hand away, it was wet and sticky.
“You’re bleeding!” she said, and Franklin’s nod was dimly visible in the darkness lit only by the fires. “I’ll find something to help,” Marin said, and crawled through the hogan’s entrance, searching by feel until she found several pieces of soft clothing or bedding.
“Hold this over the wound and press,” she said, making a thick pad. She tied the pad around Franklin using a length of bale twine, and he gasped, then sat taking deep breaths.
“Sorry, we need to get the bleeding stopped,” she whispered.
Franklin took another breath and gave a low whistle. A horse broke away from the bunched group and came close to the rails, snorting softly.
“Here is your friend, Otekah,” Franklin said and ducked into the corral. “You must take her and go.”
“Go where?”
Franklin didn’t answer. He took a rope from a corral post and ran the rope behind Otekah’s ears, made a quick turn around the mare’s muzzle, and looped a knot into the side of the make-shift halter. He pushed the end of the rope into Marin’s hands.
“No,” she said. “I can’t leave you. You’re hurt.”
“They’ll soon come looking,” Franklin said. “Trust Otekah to find the way. She’ll be going home.”
“I can’t find my way in the dark!” Marin said.
“She knows the way. There is only one gate to open; our home is near the canyon’s end. You will be able to climb out.”
“No … ” Marin said.
“Climb up to the rim road. Bring back help.”
“Franklin, I can’t climb the canyon wall!”
“There are handholds to guide you,” he said, and he pushed something cold, round, and metallic into her hands … a flashlight.
“I shot one of those Indian kids,” said a man’s deep voice and she and Franklin froze, sinking deeper into the hogan’s shadows. “He ran over here.”
“Lay off. I’m not about to get trampled trying to find him,” a second man answered.
“He’s in here, I know it.”
“He’s not going anywhere. He’s got nowhere to run with this hut built up against the canyon wall.”
“You can either come out or you can bleed to death!” the first man shouted, and there was a sudden blast of gunfire.
Marin yelped, and Otekah reared, yanking the rope from her hands and whirling away. Yuma, his gray coat barely visible, whistled shrilly and kicked against the corral poles until the saplings shuddered.
“I said lay off, you idiot! A pole fence won’t hold half-ton horses! You’ll get us trampled! You don’t even know if the kid’s in there.”
The first man raised his voice. “You hear that, Injun boy? We’re gonna start shooting your horses if you don’t come out!”
“Stow it, Jack! You start shooting and these horses will go crazy. That kid’s not going anywhere. We need to get back to the prisoners.”
“Prisoners,” Marin breathed when the men walked away. “We have to stay and help them.”
“No. You must go, shadi,” Franklin said, making a soft clucking noise until Otekah once more came close, tossing her head as the other horses restlessly circled the corral, stamping and blowing. “My beauty,” Franklin murmured, picking up the trailing rope and looping it around Otekah’s neck.
“This is a bad idea,” Marin said, but she climbed between the corral poles to lean against Otekah’s warmth. The horses were bunched together, pressing hard against the gate poles, anxious to escape, eager to run. Still …
“I’d never forgive myself if you and the others … ”
“You must bring help, tell the Sergeant what has happened.”
There was no one else to go.
When Franklin again pushed the flashlight into her hands, she took it and shoved it into her waistband, then caught Otekah’s mane and rolled onto the mare’s back, catching up the rope in one hand.
Franklin murmured something that sounded like a prayer and slid a pole from the top of the gate. Carefully he lowered one end to the ground, then reached for the next pole and did the same. Even with only two poles down, the horses began to push into the gap, Otekah with them, and Marin clutched the halter rope breathing in the familiar scent of horse—dust, dried grass, musky sweat.
“I’m not sure I can guide her.”
“Just stay on,” Franklin returned.
Marin wrapped the rope tight around her hand and twisted both hands into Otekah’s mane, aware of a familiar rush of excitement, that stomach-clenching tension when Dandy’s muscles had bunched beneath her the second before the rodeo arena gate flew open and they shot forward. She’d done this a hundred times or more, and she bent low to Otekah’s neck, gathering focus.
“Ready … ” Franklin whispered, and he eased the last pole to the ground.
“Franklin, I … ” Marin began, but Franklin stepped back, gave a shrill, yipping yell, and slapped Otekah across the rump, waving his hat as the horses surged forward.—
About the Author
Jan is a member of Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West. She and her husband live in northern Minnesota with their three big dogs—Kaibab, Rudi, and Orrin. Visit her website at: jandpayne.com
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