He then walked on downstream looking for a place to cross without leaving tracks. He found a place where the water in the stream crossed the bed of sand and flowed to the other side. He followed the water and left no tracks. Just before he reached the other side, he came upon a bed of quicksand. He had seen quicksand before, and he had learned how to cross it by watching a water snake slither cross it. The snake’s weight was distributed over the full length of its body making it buoyant in the quicksand. Michael tried crossing the quicksand with his body flat on the sand, and he, too, could wiggle across without sinking. Using this method, he crossed the river and found a place on the other side where he could step out of the water onto a log. The log was lying half submerged and half extending out onto dry land. He had succeeded in crossing the stream without leaving tracks. He would remember this spot; it might come in handy.
After crossing, he walked for hours in the direction he had seen the Indians going. He climbed to the top of a hill where he could see for miles in all directions. He remained hidden and sat quietly, with all of his senses tuned to the task of finding the Indian village. Nothing was evident, so he continued southbound, trekking across creeks and valleys, avoiding placing himself on a hill where he could be seen.
He continued south until well into the afternoon; then, as he rounded the crest of a hill, he saw another river in the distance. This river was different; it didn’t have a wide sandy bottom. It flowed through a deep channel, but he would have to cross a wide valley before he could get to it. He climbed to the top of another knoll on the rim of a deep canyon and waited.
His senses told him there was danger ahead. Although he saw nothing, he remained hidden, watching, and listening. He heard a dog barking. He had heard that many Indians had dogs. He waited for the sun to set.
Darkness came slowly, with a long and lingering twilight. The setting sun lit the high clouds with an array of brilliant colors. A herd of buffalo grazed on a hillside; deer grazed in the valley. Michael understood why the Indians had built their village here. It was protected from the cold north wind in the winter, and it had trees to provide wood for their campfires. The river provided water for drinking, bathing, and fishing. They had plenty of animals for food, and the animals would also provide skins for their lodgings and clothes for everyone.
This is a land of plenty. Why then, did they plunder and kill the people in the wagon train?
Night came, and Michael moved slowly into the valley. To be seen was to be killed, but he had to see into the village to find the men who had killed his mother and father. He saw the light of their campfires and heard them preparing their evening meal. The men were the first to eat, then the children, and then the women.
After everyone had eaten, the men sat around talking while the women put the children to bed. Michael moved cautiously along a draw leading past the village to the river. After getting into position to identify the men who killed his parents, he heard a disturbance. He looked for the source and saw a man beating a woman with leather thongs. She was crying and trying to protect herself. The man had a long scar on his cheek! That was one of the men he had come to find! Michael hid in the hollow of a burned-out tree at the edge of the village and watched to see where that man would go to sleep. He waited silently, not moving a muscle. He didn’t think anyone would find him, but he was worried about the dogs. Dogs can smell the skin of the lion and hopefully that smell will keep them away.
After a time, the village was quiet. Still he waited. Then slowly, he moved to the opening of the lodge where the man with the scarred face lay sleeping. He crawled into the tepee until he was beside the killer. He couldn’t see clearly, and he didn’t want to kill an innocent man. He rubbed his hand across his enemy’s cheek. When he felt the scar, the big man jumped, but he jumped too late; the long blade of the knife, which had belonged to Michael’s father, had already penetrated the evil man’s heart. A grunt was the only sound the Indian made.
Michael silently made his way back to his hiding place in the hollow tree, but before he could get away, the woman who had been beaten came to the opening of the lodge and cried out. Scarface has been killed! Men came running, gathering their weapons and putting on their garments as they ran. This was no time for Michael to move. He remembered the lesson of the rabbit . . . he had not seen the rabbit until it became frightened and started to run. He wouldn’t make that same mistake. He remained still as a stone and silent as the dark itself. From his vantage point, he could see clearly. Everyone was running around excitedly—someone had slain one of their most fearsome warriors!
The village was in chaos. Scarface was dead in his own lodge. That frightened them, but what frightened them even more was that they couldn’t figure out what had happened. How had this fearsome warrior been killed, and who did it? No one saw or heard anything unusual. It seemed to some that Scarface had enemies in the camp. They thought that perhaps one of his own people had killed him. They suspected his wife; he had been beating her that evening, and it was not unusual for him to beat his wife and kids.
After searching the camp without finding an intruder, most of the people went back to their lodges. But three still looked. One of them limped, and one was the man with the evil face. Michael wasn’t sure but suspected the other had only three fingers on his left hand. Michael waited, hidden in the hollow tree.
Soon he heard a searcher coming. With his ax poised, Michael waited. A hand that grasped the opening to the hollow tree had only three fingers! Still Michael waited. Three Fingers made the mistake of looking into the hollow tree. It was the last mistake he ever made. One quick and silent blow eliminated this killer forever—he would never kill again.
Michael moved silently into the night. He didn’t stop moving until he reached the crest of the canyon where he had first gotten warning that the enemy camp was near. The two searchers found the second of their cohorts dead in the hollow tree, but there was no sign of who had done it. They would wait until morning, gather more men, and go in search of the silent raider. They knew this was someone different, someone very deadly, and someone they must contend with or none of them would ever sleep peacefully again.
Michael ate and drank sparingly as he continued in the direction of the sandy river. He had to get distance between him and his pursuers. They would be riding horses and could travel faster. Michael had to give himself every advantage, and distance was one of those advantages. He would wait for another opportunity to deal with the other two men.
Now that he knew where they lived, he could bide his time, and systematically eliminate them one by one. He wouldn’t stop until he had completed what he came to do.
Michael ran all night and all next day. When he reached the sandy river, it was too dark to cross the dangerous quicksand. He decided to rest and cross it in the morning. To wait could be fatal, but it could also be fatal to wander into that treacherous quicksand in the dark. Once a victim sinks into the grasp of quicksand, there’s no escape. The opening to its trap closes suddenly, and there’s no doubt about the outcome.
The extreme activity of the last two days left Michael needing rest. He went to sleep almost immediately.
* * *
Just as the first rays of the sun lit the clouds a sense of danger aroused him. He looked back and saw two riders coming at a gallop. Michael had no doubt who they were. A quick look confirmed that they were Evil Eye and Limpy. He was pleased and surprised that there weren’t more of them. He had expected the whole village to be chasing him. But this was no time to be wondering. He had to cross the stream, and there was no way to do it without being seen. He ran into the treacherous water, not worrying about leaving tracks, went around the quicksand, and continued across. If he could reach the other side and make his stand in the trees, he might have a chance. The trees would limit the movement of their horses, and they would have to get off their horses to get to him. If he could confront them one at a time, he could beat them, but if he had to face them both on horseback, he would
be at a disadvantage, and the outcome was far from certain.
When he looked back, Evil Eye, whom the Arapaho called Black Cloud, was crossing the river upstream. Limpy followed the stream. Michael watched in amazement. Surely, he’s not going to ride his horse into that quicksand! Then he heard a yell and watched as Limpy and his horse disappeared beneath the treacherous quicksand.
That left only Black Cloud to contend with. Michael had waited a long time for this opportunity. Black Cloud was the man he had seen kill his mother with a stone ax.
Michael went directly to the spot where he had buried his mother, and stood on the knoll near her grave, waiting for Black Cloud. He didn’t have to wait long. Black Cloud rode into view. The evil-faced man just sat on his horse staring at Michael, not sure what to make of him. He saw a boy dressed in the skin of an animal standing on the hill with his hands on his hips daring him to come. That was more than his cruel mind could stand. Black Cloud dismounted. His dismounting pleased Michael. His mother’s killer was climbing the hill on foot, to kill what he believed to be a foolish boy, waiting for his executioner. Black Cloud was thinking, I killed his mother with my ax. Now I will kill him, with the same ax.
The evil man ran up the hill, his cruel face getting closer and closer. He took a wide and powerful swing with his ax, sure of a quick kill. Michael sidestepped the swinging blow, moved inside the arc and, in one smooth movement, drew his knife and drove it with all his might into the stomach of the attacker. Then, just as smoothly, he drew his ax and split the evil face like a block of wood. Without a sound, Black Cloud dropped to the ground. The world was forever free of a very bad man.
Michael dragged the body away, so the blood would not soil his mother’s grave, and then he knelt beside her grave. Now he could cry. His pent-up sorrow drained from his heart through the tears; he had fulfilled his promise by removing forever the four dangerous men.
“Mother! Father! I have avenged your death!” he yelled, and a great burden lifted from his shoulders. He removed his head cover, bowed his head, and thanked the Creator for the delivery of his enemies.
He put his head cover back on, said his final goodbye to his mother, and walked away, leaving that tragedy behind him. He would always remember his mother and father, but he had settled the score with those who had killed them, and left him to die, at the age of twelve.
He had refused to die, and now he would fulfill the pledge his father had made to Don Diego, in honor of his father,
As he left his mother’s grave, he looked back and noticed the horse Black Cloud had been riding. It was the Arabian stallion that had belonged to his father. Michael went to the horse. It was skittish at first, but after a while, the horse allowed Michael to pet him. While holding the reins in one hand, Michael grasped the horse’s mane with the other and swung onto its back.
By the time he reached his father’s grave, it was getting late. He knelt beside the grave, and he told his father what had happened. He felt deep in his heart that his father approved. He still felt a heavy sorrow for the loss of his parents, but his mind was at peace. It was time to go back to his cave and prepare for the task of finding Santa Fe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Mountain Men
For the first time since the Indian attack, Michael didn’t hide his tracks. He was riding the horse the Indians had stolen from his father, and he couldn’t prevent the horse from leaving hoof prints, but he could prevent the hoof prints from leading to his cave, so he took the horse to the blind canyon. The canyon had water and grass, with trees to provide shade. He rode the horse into the canyon, petted him, removed the halter, rubbed him down with dry grass, and set the horse free. Michael placed a dead tree across the mouth of the canyon, so the horse couldn’t wander off.
As he was walking back to his cave, he heard gunfire! It had been a long time since he had heard gunfire. He moved forward with the caution of the lion he resembled. As he got closer, he saw what appeared to be at least a dozen Indians who had two white men cornered on the limestone above his cave. One of the white men was wounded. It was just a matter of time before the Indians would overwhelm them.
These were the Indians Michael had expected to be chasing him. They had split up when they came upon the tracks of these two men. That unlikely event had probably saved his life. He had to help these men. He made his way into his cave, then quickly followed the line to the top opening. He untied the sagebrush and lifted it just enough to see what was going on out on the ledge.
The white men were only a few paces away. He called out to the man nearest. Startled, the man turned to look in the direction of the call. What he saw was the blond head of a young man with long hair and a flowing beard beckoning to him from under sagebrush. At first, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Was that a man’s face on a lion? Michael pushed the sagebrush farther away, exposing the opening, and again beckoned to the man.
The man called out to his companion, “Hey, Joe, there’s sagebrush over here waving to us to come and crawl under it!”
“We’d better crawl under something. We can’t hold out much longer here!”
The men crawled through the opening head first. The opening was almost too small for the bigger one. Michael caught them as they came through, preventing them from falling into the stream below.
One of the men asked, “Where in the Sam Hill did you come from?”
Michael made no reply. He was too busy pulling the stem of the sagebrush back into the hole. He could hear the Indians moving around outside on the limestone. He put his hand to his mouth, indicating silence.
The men in the cave couldn’t understand the Indians’ words, but they recognized the astonishment in their voices. The Indians couldn’t figure out how the white men could have disappeared. They looked and looked, but to no avail; not a trace of their escape route could they find.
Pat, the larger of the two, was standing with his rifle pointed at the bottom of the sagebrush covering the hole. He blurted, “It will cost them dearly to find that hole.”
Michael looked at him, shook his head, and put his hand to his mouth indicating they should remain silent. The older man recognized his rescuer’s concern and nodded.
After a time, there was silence outside. Michael’s keen sense of smell told him the Indians were gone. The Indians thought they were chasing the ones who had slipped into their village and killed two of their warriors.
Michael indicated with the movement of his head for the men to follow him. Holding the line, they descended into the darkness. As they got deeper into the cave, it got darker and darker.
The younger man said in a quiet voice, “This is even scarier than fighting those damn Indians.”
Michael, remembering his own fears the first time he descended into the cave, spoke the first words he had spoken to another white man in six years, and said, “We’re almost there.”
With a little laugh, Pat said, “That’s the second-best news I’ve heard in a long time.”
Soon they saw light coming from the mouth of the cave. Even though the opening was not visible, it gave off light, and after the long trek through the dark cave, the light seemed bright.
When they reached Michael’s room, he motioned for them to sit and indicated by gesture that they should remain quiet. He knew the Indians would continue searching, knowing that the white men had to have gone somewhere. It was a puzzling thing. How could they have slipped through all of their warriors without being seen?
Michael gave the men water, dried fruit, and jerky, and then washed Joe’s wound and stopped the bleeding with clean, dry ashes from his last fire. Michael looked at his guests carefully. One was about forty, six-feet tall; he was a big man with a growth of whiskers. His calm brown eyes showed that fighting Indians wasn’t new to him. Michael knew instantly that this was a man he could trust.
The man said, “My name is Pat Connors, and this is Joe Martin.”
The other man was young, Michael guessed about twenty. He was a
lso about six-feet tall, but he was clean-shaven for a frontiersman. His hair was light brown, and he had blue eyes. His movements were quick and smooth. He had a sense of humor, and he smiled easily. There was something hidden about this man, but Michael liked him.
After the sun had set and the light was no longer coming through the opening, Michael followed the stream outside, then knelt under the willows and listened, waited, and watched, making sure the Indians had gone somewhere else. Then he went back into the cave.
He looked at the men, nodded his head, and said, “We can talk now; the Indians are gone.”
Joe was the first to speak. “Where in the world did you come from? How’d you get here? What’s your name?”
When Michael didn’t respond right away, Pat said, “Every time I look at him I’ll see the sagebrush that saved my life. Let’s call him Sage.”
Michael only smiled, but the name stuck, and after that, his new companions called him “Sage.”
After starting a fire to provide light, Michael began to speak. He told them the whole story. They sat in silent amazement listening to his remarkable story.
Michael told them: “I’m the sole survivor of an Indian raid on a wagon train that consisted of only three wagons. I managed to survive and lived alone for the past six years. I made a commitment to kill the men responsible for killing my parents, and I have, just today, fulfilled that promise. That’s why the Indians were chasing you. They were looking for the killer of their warriors. Now that I have settled that score, I must fulfill a commitment that my father made to a man named Don Diego.”
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