The lone cry pierced the vast emptiness of the Dakota territory prairie like a knife, carrying across the wind swept grass with a desperation that made Wyatt Harmon pull hard on his hor's reigns. The seasoned cowboy had heard many sounds during his years on the frontier, the howl of wolves, the war cries of Lacakota warriors, the deadly rattle of a snake, but nothing quite like the whale that reached his ears on this sweltering July afternoon in 1876. Wyatt tilted his wide-brimmed hat back on his head, squinting against the harsh sunlight. His weathered face, tanned from years under the open sky, creased with concern as he listened. The sound came again unmistakably the cry of an infant.
He turned his horse, a sturdy buckskin geling named Copper toward the source of the sound, a slight depression in the rolling grassland about 50 yards to his left. As he approached, the tall prairie grass parted to reveal a sight that made his heart clench. A young woman lay motionless on her side, one arm still protectively curled around a small bundle, a baby wrapped in a thin soiled blanket. The infant's face was red from crying, tiny fists waving in distress. Beside them lay a small carpet bag, its contents spilled onto the ground.
Wyatt dismounted quickly, his spurs jingling as his boots hit the hard packed earth. He approached cautiously, his hand hovering near the Colt revolver at his hip, a habit born from years of frontier vigilance. "Madam," he called out, his deep voice gentle despite its natural gruffness. The woman didn't move. Her dress, once a cheerful blue calico, was travel stained and torn.
Her face was partially hidden by strands of light brown hair that had escaped from a simple braid. Wyatt knelt beside her, noting with relief the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was alive, but clearly unconscious. The baby continued to cry, the sound growing weaker by the moment. Wyatt recognized the particular quality of that cry hunger.
He'd heard it enough times on cattle drives when they'd come across settler families in desperate straits. Without hesitation, Wyatt shrugged off his worn leather coat, spreading it on the ground. Gently, he lifted the baby, noting how light the child felt in his large, calloused hands. The infant couldn't have been more than a few months old. Hey there, little one," he murmured, awkwardly cradling the baby in one arm while checking on the mother with his free hand.
She was burning with fever. Wyatt's mind raced. The nearest town, Clearwater, was at least 15 mi away. The woman needed a doctor, and the baby needed food. Looking around, he saw no sign of a wagon or horse.
How had they come to be here? Alone in the middle of nowhere, the baby's cries were growing weaker, which worried Wyatt more than the louder whales. Carefully, he wrapped the child in his coat and placed the bundle in the crook of his arm. Then, with strength born from years of hard ranch work, he lifted the unconscious woman and managed to position her across Copper's back. The horse snorted, but stood steady, trained to handle far heavier loads of cattle.
Steady boy, Wyatt murmured, gathering the rains in his free hand. With the baby secured in one arm and leading his horse with the other, he began the long walk toward Clearwater. The July sun beat down mercilessly as Wyatt trudged through the grass, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of threat. This territory could be dangerous outlaws, hostile Indians, wild animals. But his immediate concern was for the two vulnerable lives now in his care.