Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Reckon that’s all the fish we’ll need to feed us. Boy, he is a beauty, ain’t he, Anthony Wayne?”

  Clinton put the fish on the stringer and the pole over his shoulder. “Let’s go home,” he said. “I hate to clean these things, but they’ll sure taste good tonight.”

  Clinton felt satisfied with himself, for he had managed to get out of doing chores long enough to come fishing. His mother had agreed, saying, “I got a taste for a bit of fish myself. If you don’t catch any, though, don’t come draggin’ back here.”

  Clinton had seen the twinkle in her eye and quickly ran off to the river before she thought of any more chores for him.

  “She’ll be mighty glad to see these, Anthony Wayne,” Clinton said as he headed back toward the house.

  The big dog suddenly stopped dead still and lifted his head, sniffing the air. “What is it? What you got, boy?”

  Anthony Wayne bared his teeth, and a snarl came from deep in his throat. He threw himself forward at a dead run, and Clinton said, “Hey, wait a minute!” He galloped after the racing dog, running clumsily with the pole in one hand and the fish in the other. He had never seen Anthony Wayne take off like that. “Somethin’s got him mad,” Clinton gasped. He came to the rise of the hill, and when he topped the crest, he halted as if he had run into a wall.

  Down below, a group of Indians was approaching the house. They were wearing war paint, and at that instant the door to the house opened and Josiah stepped outside, carrying a rifle. In one smooth motion, he leveled it and shot one of the Indians off his horse.

  Clinton’s legs seemed to turn to jelly. He had heard stories about the fearful Comanches, and he knew somehow, without being told, that these were the ones he had been afraid of. He cried out, “Grandpa!” as the Indians rushed toward him. One of them had fallen when Josiah had swung his rifle like a club, but two of them jumped him, bearing him backward.

  Clinton saw the tomahawk rise and fall, and suddenly he vomited. When he straightened up, the Indians were pouring into the house. One of them stopped to shoot Anthony Wayne, and he fell dead at Josiah’s feet.

  “Ma!” Clinton cried out and started toward them. But he knew that would be useless. There was nothing he could do. Dropping the fish and the pole, he turned and ran along the line of the hill, staying out of the Indians’ sight. He was crying and did not know it as he raced along toward the pastures where he knew Clay and Brodie would be.

  Brodie looked up and blinked. “There comes Clinton on foot.”

  Clay turned and took one look. “Somethin’s wrong, boy.”

  Clay spurred his horse into a fast run, and Brodie followed. He heard Clinton calling his name, and he piled off his horse. Clinton could hardly speak. His breath came in great gasps.

  “Indians! They killed Grandpa!” he blurted out, tears running down his face.

  Instantly, Clay jumped on his horse and galloped off toward the house, and Brodie yelled, “Wait on me!” He mounted and got Clinton on behind him. Clinton was holding him so tightly he could hardly breathe. “Are they all dead, Clinton?” Brodie cried, but Clinton did not answer. Brodie spurred his horse to a dead run. He could not catch up with Clay, but when they crested the ridge, the house was on fire. He pulled up, and even before he got down, he saw Josiah lying on the porch face up. He had been tomahawked and scalped. The rest of his family was gone.

  “Let’s get this fire out quick!” Clay called out.

  The boys piled off, but Clinton simply sat down and could not move. The fire had been started in the living area, but Clay and Brodie put it out quickly.

  Clay stepped outside and said, “They’ve taken the horses and the rifles. Brodie, I want you to go get Mateo and his family. They’ll take care of your grandpa.”

  “What are you going to do?” Brodie asked, his mind numb.

  Clay did not answer. He ran inside the house and came out, buckling on his cartridge belt with his six-shooter in it and holding his Hawkin rifle. “They missed this one,” he said with grim satisfaction.

  “I’m going with you,” Brodie cried.

  “No, you’re not. You do what I tell you, you hear.”

  “We got to get a bunch together, Clay, and go after them.”

  “By the time we do that, those Comanches will be a hundred miles away from here. You go tell Mateo, and then you go to town. They’ll get a good tracker. Try to get Will Spivey. He can cut sign better than most.”

  “But I want to go with you. You can’t go by yourself.”

  Clay shook his head and said, “Brodie, I’ll catch up with ’em. Somehow I’ll get your ma and your sisters back. One more thing.”

  “What is it? I’ll do it.”

  “Find that preacher and get him to prayin’.”

  Without another word Clay ran to his horse, and without a backward look, drove him out of the yard at a fast gallop.

  Brodie stood there helplessly and watched Clay ride away until he was out of sight, and then he walked over to where his great-grandfather lay.

  He knelt down and put his hand on the old man’s chest. Tears filled his eyes, and he bit his lip to cut off the sobs.

  “Well, Grandpa, I guess now you’re in that green grass, sure enough.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  The scene exploded before Jerusalem’s eyes like a shell going off. She was sitting at the table peeling potatoes and answering questions Moriah was firing at her, when suddenly the door burst open. She looked up to see Josiah, who had been on the porch, race in, his face stretched with tension.

  “Injuns! It’s Injuns!” he shouted. “Get your gun, Jerusalem!” Josiah snatched the rifle off the pegs where it hung over the front door and rushed out again.

  Jerusalem leaped to her feet and ran across the room to get the other rifle hanging over the fireplace. “Girls, go out the back way!” she cried. Even as she spoke, she heard a rifle shot from outside and then the wild screams of the Indians. The rifle was not kept loaded, and she raced across the room to where the powder and shot were kept. She had picked up a powder horn and was pouring it into the muzzle when suddenly a short, broad Indian came through the door. His face was marked with red and yellow paint, and he moved quickly across the room and snatched the rifle from her hand. He had dark eyes that seemed to glitter, and even as he spoke, more Indians came pouring through the door.

  “No need gun,” he said.

  Jerusalem released her grip on the rifle and ran across the room and snatched up Mary Aidan. “Stay with me, Moriah,” she said. With her free hand she pulled Moriah close to her, her arm around her shoulders. She faced the Indian who was watching her, trying not to show the fear she felt.

  “That old man was brave. Was he your father?” the Indian asked.

  The fact that he spoke some English shocked Jerusalem. She felt her heart beating rapidly, for she had heard the horrific stories of what happened to white female captives. “He was my grandfather,” she said. “Take what you want and go.”

  One of the Indians cried something and dashed for Moriah. She had been helping her mother with the potato peeling, and when he yanked her away, she slashed at him with a knife. It sliced his upper arm, and he yelped and reached for the tomahawk in his belt. He raised it, but even as Jerusalem cried out, the short Indian who had grabbed the rifle barked out a command. Evidently he was the chief of the war party. He gave another command and came forward and held his hand out. “Knife,” he said to Moriah.

  “Give it to him, Moriah,” Jerusalem said quickly. She watched the Indian take the knife, test its edge, and then look at her.

  “I am Red Wolf.”

  A chill went through Jerusalem then, for she had heard of this Indian.

  From what other settlers had said to Clay, Red Wolf was more vicious than most Comanches. He was watching her steadfastly and waiting, she knew, for her to break down.

  “Where are your men?”

  “I won’t tell you anything,” Jerusalem said.


  Suddenly Red Wolf laughed. He had a broad mouth, and like most Comanches, he was short and broad. Of all the Plains Indians, they were the most feared. “You make good wife after you learn to hold tongue.” Still holding the butcher knife, Red Wolf turned and walked around as the members of his band went through the house. They tore the curtains down, opened drawers, overturned the furniture, all the time laughing and shouting. As they ransacked the house, they acted like naughty children, but they were killers glorying in the thrill of the hunt. From what Clay had told her, Comanches did nothing but hunt either animals or men. The women and the young ones did all the work.

  Mary Aidan was clinging to Jerusalem now. “What are they, Mama?” she whispered.

  “They’re Indians.”

  “Will they kill us, Mama?” Moriah said, her voice strained.

  “I don’t know. We’ll pray that they won’t.”

  The Indians appeared to be in a hurry, and finally Red Wolf gave a short command and most of the band rushed out of the house. Red Wolf turned to Jerusalem. He came close to her, so close she caught his rank smell. He waited for her to flinch and cry out, but she had determined that she would not show fear. He reached out, took a strand of her hair, and rubbed it thoughtfully.

  His eyes met hers, and he said, “We go now.”

  “Leave us here,” Jerusalem said, but she knew that was hopeless.

  Red Wolf jerked her hair and started dragging her toward the door. “Come,” he said.

  Though he was short of stature, he was a powerful man and pulled Jerusalem out the door. As soon as they were outside, he gave another command and one of the Indians yelped and ran inside. The others had gathered up the seven horses that the family had and looped them together with a long piece of rope.

  Motioning toward the horses, Red Wolf said, “Get on.”

  There was no point arguing, and Jerusalem said quietly, “We have to go with them, Moriah. Get on one of the horses.” Jerusalem went to her favorite horse, a blazed-face sorrel, and put Mary Aidan on. Without help she jumped astride and turned to see Red Wolf watching her. He said nothing but called, and a brave came out from the house. Through the open door, Jerusalem could see that he had set the room on fire. Her heart ached, for this house had become a home for her.

  Red Wolf ran to his pony, swung on with an easy motion, and yelled out, his rifle held high in the air. The Indians circled the house screaming and whooping, then rode out of the yard.

  Holding Mary Aidan with one hand and the mane of the horse with the other, Jerusalem suddenly prayed aloud, “Jesus, only You can help us now, and I ask You to watch over my girls.”

  Jerusalem slipped off the horse and lifted Mary Aidan down. She was trembling with weariness, for the band had ridden hard all day. They had stopped only once to drink beside a stream. Now darkness was beginning to fall. One of the braves yanked Moriah off and was saying something to her. She broke free and ran and held on to Jerusalem tightly.

  Red Wolf was barking commands, and the Indians began to gather firewood. Others walked a short distance away with their rifles in their hands and stood as guards.

  From time to time, one of the Indians would come by and speak, grinning at the captives. Sometimes they would reach out and touch their hair.

  Moriah would slap at their hands and say, “Let me alone!” which amused them.

  Finally, when the fire was blazing, they produced some sort of meat and began to roast it on sticks.

  Moriah stayed very close to Jerusalem. Once she whispered, “Mama, will we have to be squaws?”

  “Whatever happens,” Jerusalem said quietly, “God will be with us.

  We’ll be home again one day.”

  “They’ll come after us, won’t they, Mama? Clay will come with men to rescue us?”

  The pleading look Jerusalem saw in her daughter’s face almost broke her heart. She took her face in her hands and said, “Yes, Moriah. It may take a long time, but they will come.”

  Red Wolf brought some chunks of meat over and handed them to Jerusalem. “You cook,” he said. She took one of the sharpened sticks that one of the Indians had whittled and shoved it through the meat. As she cooked it, he stood there watching her curiously. Jerusalem was intensely aware of his gaze.

  “I had white squaw once. She was not strong. Not like a Comanche woman.”

  “What happened to her?” Jerusalem asked as she put more meat on another stick.

  “She died.” Red Wolf moved closer. Jerusalem’s red hair seemed to fascinate him. “You look like a strong woman. Most white women cry and scream when we take them, but you’re not afraid.”

  “I’m afraid for my girls,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

  Red Wolf said nothing and wandered off. The Indians had stolen some whiskey—not enough to make them crazy, but enough to loosen them up. They began telling stories, and Jerusalem was amazed at how they acted like a pack of young boys. She had always thought of Indians as being solemn, but these Comanches were not. It was hard to believe that they were vicious killers who often slowly tortured their victims to death.

  Red Wolf came back to where Jerusalem had sat down with Moriah right beside her and Mary Aidan in her lap. “You have hair like the sunrise,” he remarked. “Maybe I will take you as my third wife.”

  Jerusalem did not even look at him. With a swift movement, he reached across and pulled her head around. She looked deep into his eyes and forced herself to remain perfectly still.

  “You’re not afraid. Are you a Jesus woman?”

  Up until that moment in her life Jerusalem Hardin had been a believer in Jesus Christ, but it had been a nominal belief. She did not have the strong faith of many she had known. But as she sat there in the midst of a band of savage Comanches, she realized a moment of decision had been set before her. She knew that what she answered would direct her the rest of her life. She looked directly at Red Wolf and said clearly, “Yes, I am a Jesus woman.”

  Red Wolf considered her words and then shook his head. “Your Jesus God cannot save you.”

  “Yes, He can,” Jerusalem said, surprised at the sudden peace she felt inside.

  Red Wolf sneered at her. “I’ve seen many white eyes of your people die under the knife. Some of them cried out for Jesus to save them, but He never came for any of them. He is weak.”

  Jerusalem had always been silent about her faith, but now it was as if she had stepped through a door, and an assurance flooded her heart. “Red Wolf, we must all die. Even you. If Jesus decides to kill you and let me live, that is what will happen. If He decides that it is my time to die, then that will happen. But whatever happens to me or to you, Jesus is the Creator of all things, and He is the one that you and I must stand before someday and explain how we lived our lives.”

  They were interrupted then, for one of the Indians who had drunk more of the whiskey than the others lurched across the ground and made a grab at Moriah. Moriah did not cry out, but she fought him silently as he reached out and ripped her dress.

  Jerusalem threw herself forward and struck the brave with her fist. It did not hurt him, but it angered him. He struck her in the face with his fist, and she fell backward.

  As the warrior turned again to grab Moriah, Red Wolf spoke sharply.

  The warrior argued with him, and as Jerusalem got back to her feet, she was aware that their fate lay in the hands of the short, muscular savage.

  Obviously, the brave was claiming Moriah as his share of the spoils, but Red Wolf finally fell silent, and the hard look in his eyes brought the other Indian to his senses. He turned away, and Red Wolf watched him go.

  “That is Mantua. He wants the girl for his squaw.”

  “I know what he wants.”

  “I told him the girl is for my son.”

  Red Wolf watched to see what effect his words would have on the two and was pleased when neither of them began to beg. “He was wounded and could not come on this raid. I promised him I would bring him a white woman for
his squaw.” A look of pride came into the chief’s face.

  “He will be chief one day. You will have a good man, girl.” He turned to Jerusalem and said, “Maybe I will take you as my own squaw.” He reached out and touched Mary Aidan’s hair. “This one I will adopt.”

  Red Wolf was waiting for Jerusalem to answer, and when she did not, he said, “Don’t you know what would have happened to you if you had been captured by any other Comanche war party? You and your oldest daughter would have been shared by all the warriors, and your little one would have been knocked on the head.”

  “I know that, and I thank you, Red Wolf,” Jerusalem said calmly.

  Red Wolf was puzzled by this white woman. She behaved like none he had ever seen, and he had taken many white captives. He stared at her for a while and then said, “Your Jesus cannot save you, but you will have a good life as a Comanche squaw.” He turned and went back to the fire and took a piece of meat that one of the warriors offered him.

  “Mama, do you really believe that Jesus will save us?” Moriah asked.

  With a newborn strength she had never experienced before, Jerusalem looked her daughter in the eye. “Jesus is able to do anything, and I’m asking Him to save all three of us.”

  On the afternoon of the second day, the Comanche raiding party encountered a small herd of buffalo grazing on the plains. At Red Wolf’s word, his warriors began chasing the herd. Red Wolf sat on his horse and watched the hunt. He had not spoken to any of the captives since yesterday, but it was obvious to Jerusalem that only his iron authority had kept them from being abused. Turning to Red Wolf, she said, “Thank you for being kind to me and my daughters.”

  Red Wolf looked at her, but he did not smile. His face was expressionless for a moment, and then Jerusalem saw some dark humor glitter in his dark eyes.

  “You will be kind to me. A man needs squaws to take care of him.”

  Jerusalem did not respond, and she knew that only the power of God had kept the three of them safe. She watched as the men slaughtered a number of buffalo and began to dress the meat. Red Wolf rode out toward them, leaving Jerusalem, Moriah, and Mary Aidan alone. The distance was nearly a quarter of a mile, and Moriah said, “Mama, let’s run away.”