by Judith Pella
HEAVEN'S
ROAD
PART ONE
EARLY SUMMER 1842
CHAPTER
1
March 1836
Goliad, Texas
DEAFENING GUNSHOTS PIERCED the chill air. Cries of shock, pain, and even defiance mingled with the shattering blasts. And above it all a voice shouted, “Run, Micah! Run!”
The boy hesitated. “No, Uncle Haden.”
“I said run! Your pa’ll kill me if anything happens to you.”
The boy looked at his beloved uncle, then beyond him to the wall of slaughtering Mexican soldiers. Micah could not have moved even if he had wanted to, frozen as he was with sudden panic. Men were falling everywhere. They were unarmed and helpless against their Mexican executioners, but many were fighting desperately against the massacre with their bare hands and with the butts of rifles seized from their attackers. Still, they fell mercilessly.
“Run!” Uncle Haden’s voice wrenched Micah from his panic.
Two Mexican soldiers approached the boy and his uncle, ready to fire. Micah wanted to die with his comrades, but the voice kept screaming.
“Run . . . run . . . run!”
Haden then thrust his own body like a shield between Micah and the approaching soldiers. Only then did Micah know he must obey this man who was giving his life to save his nephew. That life could not be given in vain.
He turned and ran. A lead ball whizzed past his head. Another grazed his shoulder with searing pain, but he kept running. A thick stand of trees lay ahead, then the river. Upon reaching the cover of the trees, he paused to gasp in a breath but made the mistake of looking back at the field of slaughter. The two Mexicans were standing over Uncle Haden’s body, firing into the fallen form as if he had not been killed by the first shot. Then the soldiers took off toward the woods.
After Micah!
He wanted to fight them. He wanted to kill them. But Micah had no weapon. Rage supplanted all fear and horror. All he could think of was getting revenge. And he knew now why he had obeyed his uncle. He would run now, but he would one day fight again. The Mexican murderers would pay dearly for what they had done at Goliad.
Micah turned and ran again. How he hated to run, but he now was buoyed by roiling thoughts of vengeance. He reached the steep riverbank, but as he was about to plunge over the side, another ball struck his leg. He made a desperate lunge over the edge, where he figured he would probably be dashed to bits by rocks and debris or frozen by the icy spring runoff.But miraculously he hit the water cleanly even as more shots rang above him. Gasping a deep breath, he went under. He held his breath until he thought his head would explode, and only then did he slowly rise to the surface of the water to carefully venture a look.
The soldiers had given up their chase, no doubt believing he had drowned. He swam to the opposite bank, crawled from the water, and forced his numb body to move.
“Run! Run! Run!” The words kept echoing over and over in his head.“Run . . . kill! Kill! Kill!”
1842
Micah felt a sharp pain in his side. He flailed with his arms and let out a shuddering groan.
“Hey, Micah!”
A voice penetrated the sleep-numbed fog.
“Get up ’fore you wake every Injun and greaser around.”
Micah opened his eyes, panting as if he truly had been running. Sweat drenched him. He looked around. His friend Jed Wilkes was standing over him, looking perturbed. They were outdoors, and Micah was lying in his bedroll on the hard earth. Though still dark, the damp chill indicated it was the early hours of the morning.
“Can’t a man sleep in peace?” Micah growled harshly to cover the shaky insides left in the wake of his fitful sleep.
“Sounded like you was havin’ that nightmare again.” A look of worry creased Jed’s broad, simple face. “Ya looked awful scared, Micah. Ya ain’t never scared ’cept when you have them dreams.”
“And I ain’t scared then either!”
Micah ran his hands over his face. That cursed nightmare! Six years had passed since the Goliad massacre where his Uncle Haden, along with four hundred other Texans, were brutally murdered. Yet Micah still could not get those sickening images out of his mind. He had been a boy of fourteen at the time; very impressionable, he supposed. Still, he was a man now—almost twenty-one. What must his partners think seeing him flailing around in his sleep, probably crying out like some yella’ kid?
“Did I wake anyone else?” He looked around. Only Harvey was up. Joe was just starting to stir.
“It’s time to get up anyway,” said Jed, who then turned his attention to packing up his bedroll.
Then Micah remembered. They were supposed to be up several hours before dawn so they could start working. Smirking to himself, he thought of the euphemistic reference to work. Well, it was work. It kept him fed—that is, it usually it kept him fed. Sometimes the pickings were slim, and he’d get a bit slim as well. Only two weeks ago they had been unsuccessful in usurping a small herd of Longhorns. The owners had chased Micah and his partners into Mexico, where they had been living like animals since, trying to stay alive until something else came along. Running across the herd of mustangs two days ago had been better than finding water in the desert. Mustangs went for a lot more money than cattle. If they were successful this time, they should get a nice little wad of cash. The herd of about two hundred fine mustangs was grazing not far away. All they had to do was round up a few of them.
“Rounding them up” was also rather euphemistic. The better word was “rustle.” Yes, Micah Sinclair, son of a preacher man, was nothing but a horse thief. He only hoped his father knew about it and it was a nagging thorn in the man’s side.
Harvey Tate, the erstwhile leader of the little band of rustlers, called everyone together. Micah stowed the last of his gear on the back of his roan mount and ambled up to the group.
“I could sure use some coffee,” he grumbled.
“Sure, Micah, go ahead. Build a fire and warn everyone within ten miles that we’re laying in wait here,” sneered Harvey.
“Maybe I’ll do just that and put an end to this stupid scheme.” Micah stood toe to toe and eye to eye with Harvey. Micah could shoot straighter and was probably smarter than his boss. The only thing Harvey had on any of the other men here was age—he was almost ten years older than Micah. Thus Micah figured he’d let the man lead until he himself could garner the kind of respect afforded by sheer age.
Micah’s pale hair, despite the streaks of red, and his fair skin made him look like a babe. He hated it, especially in that these traits had come directly from his father. He tried hard to cover them with a smokescreen of swagger and grit. He had probably killed as many men, if not more, than all his outlaw friends combined—that is, if one included the Battle of San Jacinto. But he sure didn’t look like no war hero. He didn’t look like an outlaw either.
“You got a better plan for getting those horses?” Harvey was saying.
“I don’t like stealing from Anglos, that’s all. And I got a funny feeling about that herd.”
“Ain’t no time to be choosy. We ain’t had a good haul in a month.” Harvey spit a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. “Besides, they’re Mexican. You saw how they were dressed.”
“Yeah,” put in Joe Stover. “I been a whole month without whiskey or women. I’ll steal from my own mother if ’n I have to.”
“You ain’t never been without whiskey,” Micah retorted. “And I’ll bet you ain’t got no mother either!”
Jed laughed, snorting loudly. “He got ya there, Joe. You an orphan like me, Joe? Ha, ha!”
“Why you half-witted.”g Joe began, turning viciously on Jed.
Micah stepped between them with fist raised and would have planted it in Joe’s face, but Harvey grabbed Micah’s fist from behind.
“No arguing, ya hear?” Harvey glared at his men, and Micah had to admire a man who could look fearsome like that—not that he himself was afraid. Nevertheless, he did back down.
They had more important matters to attend to. Even Joe, an hombre every bit as tough as Harvey, relented.
“Listen, Micah, I don’t want to steal from Texans either,” Harvey said. “Shoot, we could hang for that. But they’re Mexicans. I’m sure of it. And we’re in Mexico, so it stands to reason.”
“Nah, Harvey,” put in Jed. “We crossed the Rio Grande yesterday, so we’re bound to be back in Texas now.”
“Not according to the Mexicans,” said Joe, who fancied himself not only a lady’s man but also a scholar because he’d read one book in his life. “There’s never been agreement on that fact. The Mexicans put the boundary at the Nueces—”
“Shut up, ya bunch of yammerin’ fools!” burst Harvey. “It’s gonna be daylight soon, and we ain’t gonna get nothing if we keep standing here exercising our jaws. I say them horses are Mexican, and that’s that!” He swung around sharply toward Micah. “You with us, or what?”
Micah shrugged. “I guess so.” He had no qualms at all about stealing from Mexicans. Truth be told, he wasn’t squeamish about stealing from Texans, but because the penalties were a far sight stiffer, he tended to avoid it. Texans stealing from Mexicans were simply considered resourceful. But those stealing from Texans were labeled bandits and received no quarter.
The four outlaws mounted up and headed out. They rode for about three miles, slowing a safe distance away from the herd and covering the last several hundred yards as soundlessly as Indians. Their plan was simple enough. Under cover of darkness they would cut out about fifty horses and drive them to a box canyon Harvey knew of where they would lay low for a couple of days while they changed the brands on the animals. Then they would take the small herd to Laredo and sell the mustangs to a friend of Harvey’s.
The four rustlers paused on a ridge overlooking the grassy meadow where the herd had been bedded down for the night. There was only one guard on lookout. Micah had noted when they first spotted them two days ago that they were running with a skeleton crew. His best guess was that there were no more than five or six drovers, including one driving the wagon. And he was certain one of them was a female, though he was baffled why there would be a woman present in this wild country. In any case, the drovers were for the most part outfitted like vaqueros, wearing wide-brimmed sombreros and mounted on Spanish saddles. But what worried Micah was that a couple of the men definitely looked like gringos. Still, it wasn’t unusual for Mexicans to wear a combination of duds. The presence of the gal worried him, too, but if all went well, there should be no danger to anyone. And even if there was, Micah had no problem killing Mexicans. He would never finish exacting the debt owed him after Goliad.
A small part of Micah knew he was trying to justify his own questionable actions. Honesty had been drummed into him much too hard as a kid. He didn’t like being a thief. He had just fallen into it. After San Jacinto he had been pretty aimless. A fourteen-year-old with no one but himself to rely on. His uncle was dead, and he sure couldn’t return home.
A life of crime had been far more preferable than facing his father.
Tom Fife, the man who had guided his family part of the way to Texas years before, had offered to take him under his wing. But Micah had been rather cocky after the heady experience of fighting a battle as well as any grown man. He had proven his prowess in battle and thought he could take care of himself. Fife had meant well, but Micah rather liked the new taste of independence he was feeling.
He had drifted around after that, hungry most of the time but too proud to let anyone know. He fell in with various gangs or worked by himself, doing whatever he had to do to survive, but never doing more than merely keeping himself alive. He joined up with Harvey last year, and it was then that he began his formal schooling in the art of preying on others for financial gain. Harvey had done everything dishonest that was possible in the States and had fled to Texas—just one step ahead of the authorities. He was a worthy teacher. They stole mostly from Mexicans. Micah liked to call it raiding, and in truth, he never had stopped fighting the war. At any rate, he figured it didn’t count if you stole from Mexicans. When he was forced to steal from whites, he managed to justify it by telling himself that he was a war hero and deserved what he could get. He didn’t doubt, though, that if caught, the Texans would hang him, war hero or not. And in that sense, his lot was cast. There was no way out for him now except by bullet or by noose.
Micah glanced up at the sky. The moon was up, bright and full. “Comanche Moon,” he muttered.
“What’s a Comanche Moon, Micah?” Jed asked.
“Nothing,” Harvey broke in. Then turning sharply toward Micah, he added, “Shut up, kid. We don’t need to hear none of that.”
With a shrug Micah said no more. They all knew that, unlike other tribes, the Comanche had no fear about attacking at night, especially on nights like this when the moon illuminated their prey. The rustlers knew it also illuminated their prey and them as well. They’d had a long discussion about the danger of rustling under a full moon, but by then everyone was thinking more of full stomachs. Game had been scarce for a week, and even Micah, notably the most cautious of the gang, was easily convinced that such an opportunity would not come along again soon.
“Micah”—Jed’s voice broke into his thoughts—“how much money you think we’re gonna make today?”
Micah glanced over at his friend, a freckle-faced boy of nineteen. Jed was tall and rangy, a bit awkward on his feet but good with a gun. Problem was, his mental facilities were slower than his gun hand. His mind had probably been addled after seeing his family killed in a Comanche raid nearly ten years ago. Maybe he bumped his head during the raid, or maybe he just didn’t see any point in facing life as an adult. Regardless, he was a good man and a loyal friend. He and Micah had met not long after San Jacinto. Jed, orphaned, had run away from a cruel foster father who thought regular beatings and hard work were all the kid needed. Micah saw that Jed would not make it on his own, so he let the kid tag after him. They wandered around together and sometimes starved together. Micah taught Jed how to use a gun and taught him how to steal as well.
“Enough money, I reckon,” Micah casually replied. The money never did appeal to him. Besides the matter of survival, he figured he did what he did in large part just for the thrill. It beat the daylights out of farming and ranching. No way did he ever want to settle down to that kind of life.
“Harvey says we’ll stay in Laredo after this and raise some Cain,” Jed said.
“Sounds good.”
“Time to move out,” Harvey ordered.
Harvey led the way, and Micah followed with the others ranging behind. They picked their way with great stealth down the ridge. Micah made sure his rifle and pistol were loaded. They weren’t expecting trouble, but they’d better be ready for it.
CHAPTER
2
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIDGE, Micah cut away from his companions. His job would be to eliminate the guard. In two days of covertly observing the herd, Micah had discovered something of the drover’s habits. Each watch was about four hours long, and by Harvey’s pocket watch, it would be a little more than an hour before the new guard came on duty. They planned their move near the end of the watch, when the guard was growing weary. The guard made about three or four circles of the herd in an hour, then usually headed up to the camp for a quick cup of coffee. The camp was not far from the horses, so striking while the guard was getting his coffee would not work because the man still had a good view of them.
There was no way around it. The rustlers had to get rid of the guard, and it had to be done quietly. This job fell to Micah, who made use of the guard’s coffee break by slipping among the herd and taking one horse while the man was away. He noted that the horses were unusually restive, but the little bay filly he roped came fairly easily. He led the animal away toward a tall clump of mesquite. The guard would pass this clump on his rounds and see the stray and come to fetch it. At least Micah hoped it would work that way.
&nbs
p; The wait seemed interminable. The man must have had two cups of coffee. Finally he started his ride around the herd, and when about halfway, he noted the stray.
“Don’t know why the herd’s so jumpy tonight,” the man muttered to himself. He was wearing a sombrero and had a Mexican serape around his shoulders, but he didn’t sound Mexican.
Shrugging away his disquiet, Micah pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth, then drew his pistol. When the guard was well within range, Micah stepped from the cover of the mesquite.
“That’s far enough, señor,” he warned.
“What the—?”
“Easy, now, and no sound from you, or I’ll be forced to shoot. Get those hands up where I can see ’em.” The man obeyed, and Micah lifted the fellow’s pistol from his belt. “Now dismount.”
Up close, Micah saw the man was definitely a gringo. This made his task a bit harder, because he knew he’d pay dearly if he killed the man. A Mexican . . . well, that would be different.
“Lie down,” Micah ordered. “Face in the grass.” When the man had complied, Micah quickly took the rope he’d used on the bay and tied the drover’s hands behind him. With a powerful blow, he clipped the man on the head with his pistol butt. That ought to put him out of commission for a long spell, but just to be safe, Micah also gagged the man.
Returning to his partners, the four began cutting out horses. They wouldn’t be greedy. They could get away with fifty head without causing too much of a stir. This was a nice-looking herd, and even fifty ought to bring each rustler a fair bankroll.
Half an hour later the job was nearly done. Harvey and Joe were already well away with at least two dozen animals. Jed was a couple of hundred feet behind leading away ten horses, and Micah was about to lead away a dozen more. That’s when it all broke loose.
Micah first heard a shout. He thought it might be the guard having regained consciousness and broken free of his gag. But it was coming from the wrong direction. Then a split second after the shout, there came a shot. Now Micah knew the sounds were coming from the camp.
