Promise Bridge by Eileen Clymer Schwab

arise that brought Colt’s hidden talents to the surface, and this was indeed one of those occasions.
    Marcus measured us with uncertainty. He looked down at his suffering sister, then back again at our earnest faces. Suddenly, the proud, angry woman stepped from the group and challenged Marcus.
    “Don’t you let no white slaver lay a knife to that chile’s black skin. They would sooner cut her heart out and fed it to the sows ’fore they use their healin’ medicine on one of us. Don’t trust nothin’ a slaver says or promises. We all got the strap marks to know I speak the truth.”
    “Hush up, Raizy. You got no say in this.”
    “The hell you say, fool. We didn’t come this far so you can sacryfice the lot of us to save yo’ kin. You is the one who said from the get- go that if any of us gets sick or can’t keep pace, then they gots’ta be left behind for the good of the group. They is your words, outright.”
    “The group is not in danger,” Marcus growled.
    “There’s always danger when you trust a milky-white soul from the big house. You may as well put our heads on the choppin’ block.”
    Frustrated with the standoff, Colt went for the large sack he had been carrying when first I saw him in the woods. He walked over and shoved it into the hands of the distrusting woman.
    “Would I bring you all these provisions if I intended harm? There is enough to fill your bellies and see you on your way.”
    They gathered around the sack and pulled out loaves of cracked bread, salted pork, apple butter, and a hefty bag of cornmeal. The woman called Raizy offered no apologies or grateful acknowledgments, but backed away from her protest and huddled with the circle to partake in the food. The magnitude of their situation suddenly hit me. For the first time since our paths crossed, I was frightened—not by them, but by the desperation and determination that drove them north, as well as the hateful vengeance of those equally pledged to keep them in their place and the ways of the South intact.
    Colt expressed urgency in Livetta’s treatment, although his facade remained calm. “We must rid her of the infection before it takes a death hold on her. I know it’s a difficult decision, but these things can move swiftly, and waiting may take it out of our hands.”
    Marcus finally conceded. “Then let’s not waste no more breath talkin’ ’bout it.”
    Colt nodded and removed his scalpel from the box. “I will open the wound just enough to flush it clean. Then I will seal it with a hot blade.”
    Marcus winced in empathy. “We gonna need to hold her down.”
    Raizy and the stocky young man stepped forward from the group and positioned themselves opposite each other, over Livetta’s limp knees. Joining in the silent cooperation, I shimmied in next to Livetta and carefully pulled apart the stained bullet hole in her dress to expose the inflamed wound. As Marcus leaned down across his sister’s upper body to anchor her shoulders and arms, Colt sank his knife into her hip. Livetta jolted from her disoriented stupor with a whooping cry. I instinctively grabbed her fingers when she clawed at the ground beneath her brother’s weight. She clung to my hand and pulled me near. I glanced down toward her hip, where blood and fluid oozed like brown honey. Colt’s thumb and forefinger disappeared into the open wound and resurfaced with a dark, round gun pellet.
    “Got it!” Colt looked up at me with great relief and a hint of pride in his gleaming eyes. “Pass me the kettle with the boiled water,” he called out to the mesmerized group behind us. The young mother heeded his words and ran for the small kettle of water that sat near the smoldering fire. Colt must have wisely ordered it boiled earlier, because as I reached across to take it from her eager grasp, it was tepid and soothing to the touch.
    “Hannah, I am going to pull her wound open while you pour a steady stream to flush it clean.”
    With Marcus and the