by Judith Pella
It wasn’t until the next afternoon that they located fresh tracks. Apparently the Indians had spent some time trying to find their missing captive. They also did not appear to be in a great hurry, nor were they exercising much caution, which no doubt explained how the woman had escaped. Perhaps they felt enough time had passed that they were safe from pursuit. Or they might simply feel confident in their numbers, which Big Foot estimated at about twenty. Nevertheless, Micah was frustrated when the rangers had to halt for the night so as not to destroy the signs in the darkness.
Two hours after sunrise the next morning, the rangers located the Comanche camp on the edge of a dense cedar break. The Indians were only beginning to break camp. Indeed, they seemed as relaxed and unconcerned as if they were on a Sunday picnic. Only when they heard the approach of the rangers did they spring into action, grabbing weapons and horses, leaving all else behind, and dashing for the cedar. The Comanches weren’t about to make a stand against the obviously better armed and better mounted rangers.
Micah dug his heels into the buckskin’s flanks. They would lose their prey if they reached the trees. Before realizing it, he was several lengths ahead of his comrades. In another minute, he was in the midst of the Comanche camp where the braves were still running helter-skelter in a frenzied escape attempt. Several had already reached the trees. They were on foot, since horses would be of little use in the dense wood. One Indian paused and fired at Micah. The ball from the Indian’s ancient musket tore Micah’s hat from his head. Micah jumped from his mount and fired back but only grazed a tree as the Indian took off running.
Micah fired again at the retreating Comanche with his second pistol, bringing him down. He quickly reloaded and was about to continue pursuit when someone yelled his name.
“Micah!”
He spun around in time to see a warrior bearing down on him with a drawn knife. Micah pulled the trigger, but his pistol jammed. The Comanche leaped for a final attack, but a shot from behind stopped him. Micah saw it was Bill McBroome who had come to his aid. He didn’t have time for more than a nod of thanks because the Comanche Bill shot was only wounded and was now dashing for cover. Micah also raced toward the trees.
But he was too late. The Comanches were quickly disappearing into the cover of the break. It would be useless to attempt to engage them in the thick woods, but it was a hard reality to accept. Only one dead Indian for the rangers’ efforts. And no baby. Discouraged, Micah joined the others in search for booty, mostly horses that the retreating Indians had not had a chance to take. Four horses and two mules.
“A gray mule!” Micah yelled.
He found his reward carefully wrapped in several layers of hides.
The squirming, wailing baby was definitely white and seemed no worse for his ordeal.
A few minutes later Big Foot Wallace came up to Micah with another unexpected reward. “Reckon you got the only kill of the day, so you earned this.” He held out a bloody swath of black hair.
It wasn’t the first scalp Micah had ever seen and would surely not be his last, but he’d never get used to them, to the blood, the gore, and the gruesome kind of victory they represented. He only took the thing and tied it to his saddle because he thought it might give Mrs. Hornsby some comfort knowing at least a small price had been exacted for her loss.
But the screaming child made him quickly forget all this. Tom was holding the baby, but completely bewildered, he handed it off to Bill, who grimaced as if he’d just been handed a rattler. He held the child out at arm’s length, looking desperately around for rescue.
Micah took the baby almost instinctively, though it had been years since he’d been around children. “He’s wet,” Micah announced. “Anyone got a spare shirt in their saddlebag? I don’t have a spare, or I’d use it.”
Tom found a shirt and gave it to Micah. “What’d you need that for?”
“You’ll see. In the meantime, someone get a fire going and boil up some water with a couple pieces of jerky in it.” Almost in spite of him self, Micah began warming to the task. It brought back many memories. Most were unwelcome, but not everything about his growing up had been unpleasant. Like any normal boy, he hadn’t liked helping his mother care for his siblings, yet there had been something nice about the companionship of his mother and sisters. These tasks had formed a bond among them. A bond that had excluded his father.
Micah stripped off the baby’s diaper, a mere rag that looked as if it hadn’t been changed for days. The smell caused tears to sting his eyes. The other men stepped back with various noises of disgust. Micah cleaned the boy, who appeared to be about eight months old, with the damp ends of the old diaper, which he then laid aside.
As he positioned Tom’s shirt under the squirming child who was fully exercising his healthy lungs, Tom leaned in closer to see what was to become of his shirt. At just that moment, the baby decided to release more than tears. A stream of urine struck poor Tom right between the eyes.
“What the—” he sputtered, then jumped away, looking like he’d have rather been shot.
The other men howled.
Bill was nearly doubled over with laughter. “That kid’s got a better aim than Micah!”
Then, as if Tom’s humiliation wasn’t complete, he began to perceive exactly to what use his shirt was being put when Micah wrapped the main part of the shirt around the baby’s bottom, circling the sleeves around his middle to fasten it all together.
“That’s my best shirt!” Tom protested.
“It’ll wash up fine,” Micah assured him.
“I ain’t wearin’ no shirt that’s been fouled by a kid’s innards!”
“You’ll smell better’n ya do now,” taunted Bill.
Tom was sputtering, trying to think of a retort, when Micah picked up the old diaper and thrust it out. “Here, Bill, go wash this out in the stream.”
Bill jumped back, hands raised, obviously appalled. “I ain’t touching that!”
Micah marveled that men who thought nothing of lifting a human scalp were so repulsed at a little child’s mess.
“Do I gotta do everything?” he railed. “This baby has to eat. Now one of you sorry varmints take care of this rag. We’ll need a spare, unless someone has another shirt . . .”
With a curse, Bill picked up the offensive item and marched off to the stream. Micah lifted the child against his shoulder, and at last the baby’s wails began to subside a little. He walked around the camp patting the boy’s back and cooing softly. Soon the broth was ready. After it had cooled some, he took off his bandanna, loosely knotting one end, and dipped it into the broth. He brought the sodden knot to the infant’s lips and the baby sucked hungrily at it.
“Well, I’ll be!” said Big Foot. “Looks like our horse-thieving ranger is also a baby’s nurse. Wonders will never cease!”
“Where’d you learn all this stuff?” one of the other men asked.
“I was the oldest of four,” Micah replied casually. “I’ve changed my share of diapers and such.”
“Well, I was from a big family, too,” said one of the men, “and I never learned all that. My pa made sure women’s work was done by the women.”
My pa didn’t give a hang, Micah thought but said nothing out loud because he didn’t care to open his personal life to everyone. He did allow himself a private grin when he remembered those days his father had suffered so, right after his mother had died. Benjamin had been in way over his head trying to care for the newborn, in addition to the other children. Micah had taken special pleasure in making the task as hard on his father as he could, never volunteering information and helping only when it seemed that to do otherwise might be harmful to the children.
“Well, Micah,” said Big Foot, “I’d start to wonder about you if ’n you wasn’t so good with a gun.”
Micah responded with a disgruntled snort, then gave the baby another taste of broth.
When they returned to the camp where they had left the child’s mother, they learned t
hat Mrs. Hornsby had died hours earlier.
“Well, boy,” Micah said gently to his little charge, “I’m sorry for you. You poor kid.” He ran a finger over the child’s downy soft yellow curls. “You don’t even have a name,” he murmured. “Ain’t right that you have no family and no name either.” He smiled into the limpid brown eyes. “When my brother was born, I wanted to name him for my uncle, but my pa would have none of that. I think I’ll call you Haden . . . just so I don’t have to keep calling you kid.”
He held the child a little closer, rocking him gently. He’d had sole responsibility for the baby on the ride back, and now it looked as if he’d have to continue to do so until they got to San Antonio. He’d gotten a couple of the others, Tom included, to help some, but it seemed the baby was most content when Micah had him. Sometimes as he rocked the baby, humming little snippets of tunes he remembered from his childhood, he’d find his thoughts wandering to Lucie Maccallum. That amazed him more than anything. It gave him a kind of warmth all over, a sensation he hadn’t felt in many years. But he knew it was a dangerous sensation to feel, much less enjoy.
They arrived in San Antonio four days later on a Sunday afternoon. As the rangers rode past the new Protestant church, Micah decided the service must have just recently concluded because the members were still milling around outside visiting. He saw the big redheaded figure of Reid Maccallum, then quickly jerked his head away before his eyes made contact with Lucie, who he knew would be somewhere near her father. He wanted to see her, to talk to her again. But he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.
He and Tom took the baby to the constable’s office so they could discuss what was to be done about the boy. Once apprised of the situation, the constable sent his deputy over to the church to see if any of the women could help out. In the meantime one of the other men found some milk to feed the child. Micah warmed the milk and fed the boy while the child’s future was being decided.
“I’m pretty sure Martha and Ned Hornsby had family up around Austin,” the constable said.
“Then they’ll take him,” Micah said hopefully. He himself was growing much too attached to this kid. The sooner he was rid of him, the sooner he could get back to an existence he understood.
“It’ll take time to reach them, of course.”
“Well, surely one of the women here will take him until then.”
“No doubt.”
About fifteen minutes later, a woman did come to the constable’s office. Lucie Maccallum. Micah was alone with the baby. Tom and the constable had gone to see how the deputy was doing finding a temporary home for the child.
“I heard about what happened,” she said softly, lowering her voice even more when she saw the baby was asleep.
“Poor fella,” Micah said. “It’s a rotten thing to happen to an innocent kid.”
“Yes. To lose his mother like that . . . it makes me sick.” She gingerly lifted the corner of the blanket, Micah’s trail blanket he’d torn in half to use for the child. “But he seems awfully content now.”
She lifted her eyes from the baby, focusing fully on Micah. He felt like squirming under her gaze but willed himself to keep still. So as not to disturb the boy, he told himself. He didn’t know why his heart seemed to stop moving as well.
“Th-the constable says he’s got other family up north, so that’s good.” Micah’s voice squeaked nervously over the words.
“Mrs. Wendell at church said she’d take the boy until his family can be found.”
“Well, where is she?”
“Are you going to be able to let him go?” She smiled, her eyes twinkling, but not in a taunting way. “Tom explained how you’ve cared for the baby since he was found. He said you had a special knack—”
“That fool Tom!” Micah exclaimed, his raised voice causing little Haden to move and whimper in his arms.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I just did what had to be done.”
“Like when you rescued me?” Her smile broadened and now contained a trace of smugness.
“Oh, that’s—” But Micah was cut off as the door opened.
Mr. and Mrs. Wendell, accompanied by the constable and his deputy, entered. Micah was never so relieved and so unhappy about seeing anyone. Micah told himself the child needed a woman’s care. As for himself, he had Indians to hunt and Mexicans to kill. He had a job to do that held no room in it for babies and such.
Yet when it came time to relinquish the boy, Micah found it difficult to release him. But he wasn’t about to let it show. With a grunt and loud sigh of relief, he deposited Haden into the woman’s outstretched arms.
“Thank goodness you finally got here,” he said. “This kid was about to drive me crazy.”
Micah hurried from the office the first chance he could, choosing a moment when Lucie was occupied in conversation with Mrs. Wendell. He raced outside, gasping in air as soon as he’d exited. His throat felt constricted, and his eyes were burning.
He gulped deep breaths. How could he have let that kid get to him so?
Then Lucie was there at his side. She’d gotten to him, too! And it scared him.
But he couldn’t resist looking at her. Now that his arms felt so achingly empty from the departure of the child, he thought it would be so easy to fill them with Lucie’s soft, inviting form.
“I must see to my father,” she said, her words not quite breaking the spell but at least keeping him from doing something very foolish.
“Give him my regards.”
“I will.” She gave him a parting smile, turned, then paused and turned back. “Mr. Sinclair, I was wondering if you knew about the ball to be held here in town next weekend? You might enjoy it, and if you attended, I would love to save a dance for you.”
“Well, I . . .” He stared at her, incredulous. He had never been to a dance in his life, and he certainly had never been promised a dance with a beautiful, genteel lady such as she. It smacked of civilization, and coming as it did on the heels of the unsettling experience with the baby, it frightened the life out of him. But in an odd way, it enticed him, too. He knew he should tell her “no thanks.”
Babies and dances and genteel ladies were not for men like him.
“I’ll see if I can make it,” he heard himself say.
CHAPTER
13
MICAH DECIDED NOT TO GO to the dance. He didn’t know why. It just seemed like a good idea to avoid such vestiges of civilization. He had gone out on another patrol with several rangers, and he had hoped that would have kept him away, but as ill-luck would have it, they returned to town Saturday morning.
“Plenty of time to get yourself spruced up for that dance,” Tom suggested as they tended their horses.
“And how am I supposed to do that, Tom?” Micah groused. He was tired and ill tempered. The patrol had not gone well. He had been sent off to investigate some tracks leading to a ravine and had gotten turned around and lost his way back to the main force. When he finally did catch up to the company, the men had ridiculed him unmercifully, all in good nature, of course, for days after.
“A bath would be in order first,” Tom replied, wrinkling his nose.
“You smell like a coyote yourself, Tom, so don’t go making fun of me!”
But Micah did smell, and his beard was stubbly and itchy, and his hair was plastered down against his scalp with sweat and grime. However, these drawbacks could be easily repaired. What he could do nothing about was his clothing. He had no change of clothes, and there was no way he’d take more charity. Even if he was of a mind to go to the dance, he could not do so in dusty, worn dungarees and a matching shirt. The worst of it was, if he attempted to launder these items one more time, they would probably fall apart.
“Anyway, how’d you know about that dance?” Micah asked.
“Jed mentioned it.”
Micah glared at Jed, whose lips were curved into a smirk. “I ain’t never seen no one with a bigger mouth!” Micah rebuked his friend.
“He also told me as how that pretty little Maccallum gal wanted to dance with you,” Tom added.
“So what?”
“You’re at an age where you ought to be thinking of settling down.” This seemed a peculiar statement coming from the grizzled bachelor.
“What are you? My mother?” Micah sneered.
Tom grunted a couple of unkind remarks, then returned his attention to his horse, loosening the bindings and removing the saddle.
They were in the field near the edge of town where the rangers had staked out their camp while off duty. One of the men had built a fire and was cooking a late breakfast. Others were grooming their mounts after the stint on the trail and others were heading to the river for baths in what little water there was so late in summer.
“If I had a gal like that who wanted me,” Jed declared, “I sure wouldn’t refuse.”
“Then take her,” Micah muttered.
Jed only snickered and snorted in response. “But, Micah, you got things turned around, don’t ya? First you got the baby, then you got the gal, and you ain’t even got married yet.” He laughed even harder at his humor.
Cursing at his friend, Micah turned to tending his buckskin. Even if he had botched this most recent mission, Jose had performed admirably. As Micah unhitched the saddle, his thoughts turned to the woman who had given him the horse, though he truly wanted not to think of her. He wondered what it would be like to dance with her, to take her dainty little hand in his, to see her smile and glow with the exertion of the rousing music. He’d heard of a dance called a waltz where couples actually held each other. It wouldn’t be as close as he’d held her when she had fainted, but close enough, he supposed.
