The Captive Heart

by Dale Cramer

  He was unarmed but for the axe, so he moved in short silent bursts from cover to cover, the way his father had taught him. The bandit did not look back, didn’t know he was being followed.

  The girls fell silent. Domingo had heard their laughter in the woods even while he was cutting limbs, but now there was nothing. Kyra was with them, he knew this much. She would see the bandit before the others, and maybe his sister would find a way to hide until he could get to her.

  The bandit slowed, his head scanning side to side, searching the undergrowth. Domingo closed on him little by little, but he was still fifty yards back when the bandit stumbled upon the girls.

  There were screams and shouts as he dragged one of Kyra’s boys out of the bracken. Miriam’s dog bristled and snarled, but the bandit brandished a pistol and Miriam held her back. In the noise and confusion Domingo saw his chance. He broke from cover and charged up the slope, shifting his grip on the axe in case he had to throw it to buy a few seconds. His odds were not good, but there was no other way.

  He was still twenty yards away when the bandit heard him and turned. The pistol swung around and came to bear. Domingo kept charging, raising the axe to hurl it, but before he let it go there was a loud metallic whang! The bandit’s sombrero went flying and his head snapped forward. He crumpled, dropping hard to his knees and pitching face-first into the leaves.

  Kyra stood over him, breathing hard, her face flushed, the shovel cocked over her shoulder in case she needed to swing it a second time.

  “Beware the mama bear with niños,” she hissed.

  The others were getting to their feet as Domingo knelt over the unconscious bandit and took the revolver from his hand. Underneath the prone body he found another pistol and a knife.

  “Is everyone okay?”

  Kyra nodded. “Sí. We are unharmed.”

  Domingo handed the axe to Miriam. “Stay here until I call you. Tie his hands and keep your shovel close.” Then he wheeled about and raced downhill toward the wagons.

  Chapter 7

  El Pantera flung the bowl away and wiped his mouth on a sleeve. “I wonder what is keeping Gomez,” he said. “I should know better than to send an old man to do a young man’s—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence because he glanced up and saw Domingo. The native stood on the edge of the woods, twenty feet up the hill, leveling two pistols at the three bandits.

  El Pantera spread his arms and smiled as if he were greeting an old friend. “Finally, we meet the son of Ehekatl once again! How have you been, young one?”

  The smile remained on his face, but his hands drifted down, coming to rest on gun butts.

  “If I were you, Señor Aguilar,” Domingo said calmly, “I would take those pistols out very slowly and put them on the ground. All of you.”

  El Pantera’s leering smile faded, and no one said anything for a long moment. His hands did not move. One of his compadres leaned close to him to whisper something, and all three bandits laughed.

  El Pantera pointed. “The guns you are holding, young one—they belong to Gomez, no? Perhaps you should know, before you throw away your life, that old Gomez was always deadly with a rifle, but he could not even hit the ground with those pistols. They don’t shoot straight.”

  Domingo shifted uneasily. “Perhaps it is not the weapon, but the man who holds it.”

  El Pantera shrugged. His hands had still not moved from his hips, and now the other two pulled their coattails back and spread their feet a little farther apart.

  “Ah, well. It is a pity you cannot believe me, young one. So like your father, you are. You did not have to die this day, but I can see in your eyes that your mind is made up. Alas, you will get only one shot. You will miss, and then you will die. After you are gone we will take vengeance on your friends, and what will you have bought with your short life, eh?”

  Domingo said nothing, his eyes steady and his hands steadier. There was nothing left to be said. The air crackled like the stillness before a storm.

  El Pantera’s hands wrapped around the butts of his guns and his shoulders tensed, but in that moment the silence was broken by the double click of two shotgun hammers.

  All three bandits turned their heads in unison and looked over their shoulders to see Micah standing beside the wagon with a double-barrel shotgun pointed at them.

  Micah said nothing, his eyes hard.

  Domingo cleared his throat. “That twelve gauge shoots a very wide pattern, ladrón. I have seen it bring down three birds with one shot, and there are two barrels. Perhaps you would like to reconsider.”

  Caleb, Ira and John had been standing by the hack all this time, afraid to move. Now Caleb stepped forward, his hands out, his voice calm.

  “Stop this,” he said. “No one has been hurt and no damage has been done. Why must anyone die? We are men. We can talk.”

  El Pantera looked at Caleb with vague amusement in his eyes. He seemed to relax as his hands moved away from his guns.

  “The viejo is right,” he said to Domingo. “This is a difficult situation. So what will you do now, young one?”

  Domingo had not lowered his guns. “My father spoke of you often, Aguilar. He said you seldom give your word, but when you do, you keep it. Is this true?”

  El Pantera stroked his stubbly chin. “It seems a foolish question. If a man is a liar, he will say he is not. But your father was right: I do not give my word lightly.”

  “I have heard there is trouble in Mexico City. Is that where you were going?”

  The bandit grinned. “Sí. There is work there, for a man who knows how to fight.”

  “Then go there. Give me your word you will not harm these people and we will let you pass.”

  El Pantera glanced once more at Micah and his twelve gauge, rock steady, bracing himself against the wagon wheel.

  A casual shrug. “All right.”

  “Your word, Aguilar.”

  El Pantera took off his hat and swept his arms wide in a mock bow, though his lips sneered. “You have my word, son of Ehekatl. I swear on your father’s grave we will harm no one and we will not look back . . . this time. And will you give Gomez a burial befitting an old soldier?”

  Domingo chuckled. “I will be happy to do that if you wish, only Gomez is not dead. He just has a little headache.” He turned his head and shouted up into the woods, “Kyra! Bring the bandit down here!”

  A minute later, the rustling of leaves grew louder as Gomez stumbled down out of the trees without his sombrero, his hands tied behind him and three young women following close behind with shovel and axe.

  The bandits mounted their horses and started down the road with El Pantera bringing up the rear. At the last, he turned the big Appaloosa around and glared at Domingo.

  “I will not forget this day, young one. Mark my words—we will meet again, and you will pay.”

  Then he spun about and spurred his horse to catch up. Miriam’s German shepherd, still bristling and snarling, gave chase for a hundred yards before she came trotting back with her tongue hanging out. Micah kept the shotgun trained on El Pantera’s back until he was completely out of sight.

  ———

  Miriam stayed back, watching from the edge of the woods until the bandits were gone. She was shocked to see Micah pointing his shotgun at them, but she was utterly stunned by what happened next.

  Ira Shrock stalked quickly over to his eldest son, who still held the shotgun cradled in his arms, and slapped him. Hard. Ira’s jaw was working, his face beet red, his whole body twitching with rage, and there was fire in his eyes.

  “What did you think you were doing, boy?” Ira bounced on his toes, his fists clenched as he fired the words at Micah’s face. “Why on earth would you even think of threatening a man’s life like that? Would you really want to spend eternity in hell?”

  Micah, a head taller, looked down at his red-faced father with a blank expression, his feelings hidden but for a trace of thinly veiled indignation in his eyes.


  “They said they would take vengeance on us,” he answered quietly.

  Ira drew back and slapped him again, harder. “They said? TALK! A heathen’s words are mostly lies, son! Did you see them harm anyone? Did they ever take their guns out of their holsters? NO! You come mighty close to casting yourself into hell forever when you point a shotgun at a man who didn’t do nothing but eat some of our soup! Would you become a murderer over a bowl of soup?”

  Domingo had apparently heard enough. He turned and slipped quietly up into the woods.

  Micah had not moved, the shotgun still cradled in his arms. “I could have repented of it later, and they—”

  Ira slapped him again. Micah’s head swiveled and came back to where it was, only now his mouth was closed tight.

  “And what if they killed you? Did you think of that, boy? What if they shot you down even as you murdered one or two of them? Would you face Gott with blood on your hands? FOOL!”

  Ira railed and fumed for another minute or two while Caleb and John stood some distance away with their arms folded and their backs turned, pretending not to hear. Miriam understood this, too. She did not agree, though it did not escape her notice that she too had declined to speak up. Ira was his father. It was his right, his responsibility, and none of them would interfere. Ever.

  When Ira finally ran out of words he stalked off down the road toward the last wagon, presumably to cool himself off. The other boys had come to see what was happening and heard the whole tirade. Now they quietly faded back up into the woods, and Micah remained by the wheel of the lead wagon, staring at the shotgun in his hands, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  When she judged that Ira was far enough away Miriam padded softly down the bank and went over to Micah.

  “Are you all right?”

  A slight nod. He didn’t look at her. There was a distinct handprint on his cheek, and the beginning of a bruise.

  “Micah.”

  After a few seconds his head turned and he looked down at her.

  “Micah, it’s all right. Whatever you meant to do, just ask and it will be forgiven. You’re alive. We’re all alive, thanks to you, and ours is a Gott of mercy.”

  A thin line of silver appeared in the bottoms of his eyes and he looked away from her again, embarrassed.

  Softly she said, “Micah, tell me the truth—tell yourself the truth. You would not really have killed those men, would you?”

  The pain in his eyes deepened as he looked down at the shotgun in his hands. His thumb moved over the top of the stock to the lever that released the breech, and he pushed it sideways. The shotgun broke in the middle, twin barrels hinging down.

  Miriam’s mouth opened but she couldn’t speak, tears springing to her own eyes as she reached out slowly and brushed a fingertip across the empty barrels where the shells should have been.

  She reached up then, with the same finger, and gently turned his chin so that he faced her.

  “Micah, you mean to tell me it was never loaded? The whole time?”

  He nodded grimly.

  “Then why didn’t you say something to your dat? Why didn’t you tell him, Micah? Why did you just stand there mute?”

  What she saw in his eyes then was almost too painful to bear, but at last he spoke. In a voice that had been scraped raw by a fierce, proud anger, he said, “It would have done no good. Nothing pleases him.”

  As if to put an exclamation point on his words, he snapped the shotgun shut. Leaning into the wagon, he shoved it under the seat, then turned away and strode up into the woods with his fists buried deep in his pockets.

  She let him go. He needed to be alone, and there was nothing left to say. There were things she did not understand about men and probably never would, but it was a fact that sometimes a man, faced with a pain too great to endure, would simply choose to do nothing. Sometimes he would see no option but to stand there like a mule in a downpour and bear it.

  ———

  Two hours later the last wagon was loaded and tied down. The shadows grew long, the sun just touching the western peaks. They would have to hurry to get the heavily laden wagons over the worst of the mountain trails before darkness fell.

  While the men hitched up the horses, Miriam scrambled on top of the logs with Kyra and her boys, but when she looked back and saw Micah alone on the seat of the last wagon, she climbed down without a word and went to sit beside him.

  Sensing that he needed company, if not words, she sat close to him. Neither of them said anything for a long time as he wrestled and cajoled his team of Belgians up and down the mountain ridges. But later, as the sun dipped behind the hills and the clouds turned to simmering coals, she bumped him with a shoulder and said quietly, “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. “A couple hours with an axe can cure a lot.”

  “It’s good you can bounce back so easy.”

  He glanced down at her and smiled a little, then his eyes went back to the road. “It’s not so hard if you’ve had plenty of practice.”

  “Your father gets like that often?”

  A shrug.

  “You should have told him the gun wasn’t loaded, Micah.”

  “He would have hit me again, for talking back. Once his hackles are up, he can’t hear nothing. I’m never so good as he thinks I should be, but I’m never so bad as he thinks I am.”

  “All the more reason. If you help him see the good in you, maybe he will soften.”

  But Micah’s eyes hardened, his upper lip curving into a sneer as he barked orders and snapped the reins, urging the horses up a little grade.

  “Let him think what he will. The son he thinks he has is the one he deserves.”

  Chapter 8

  On the long drive home Caleb constantly scanned the lengthening shadows of rocks and trees for signs of an ambush. But they were only shadows, devoid of threat. Perhaps El Pantera was, after all, a man who kept his word. The log-laden wagons encountered no more trouble on the return trip, arriving at the farm well after dark. Exhausted by a long day of hard work and a tense ride home, Caleb slept that night as one dead.

  The next morning the men gathered at the saw pit. By the time the sun had climbed enough to take away the night chill the older sons had already shed their coats and sweated through their shirts as they drew the two-man ripsaw rhythmically up and down, up and down, slicing logs into lumber.

  As Caleb and John put their shoulders into cant hooks and rolled a fresh log onto the trestle, Ira walked up. He leaned his forearms on the edge of the wagon.

  “Caleb, we need to talk,” he said. “We got to do something about these bandits before somebody gets killed or, Gott forbid, they do harm to our daughters.”

  Caleb climbed down from the wagon and John followed, lighting his pipe.

  “I’m not sure what we can do,” Caleb said. “I’m as fearful of these men as you are, Ira. They are hard men, without conscience, but would you become as they are? In the end I think we must do everything we can to avoid provoking them. We must not become their enemies.”

  There were gray circles under Ira’s eyes. He had not slept well, and even now his red face was clouded with worry. “That kind of thinking may be fine for most of these vermin, Caleb, but this El Pantera fills me with dread. What kind of country is this, where evil men do as they please without anyone to stop them?”

  “I will stop them,” Domingo’s voice said. He had come up behind Ira and overheard most of the conversation. “I will stop them if I can, but you must understand a few things, Herr Shrock. Most of the people you will meet are ordinary hardworking farmers like you, but there has been a war. Now that it is over, these northern hills are full of Pancho Villa’s rabble, men from the border towns who were swindlers and thieves before they were soldiers. El Pantera’s men fought with Villa during the Revolution, and it was there that they learned to storm a hacienda, to slaughter and rape and take what they want. It is not easy for some men to unlearn such things.”

  I
ra stared hard at the young native as he took off his hat and poncho and laid them under the wagon seat.

  “This is what comes of war,” Ira said. “It kills a man’s conscience and makes him capable of all manner of abominations. This El Pantera is such a man, and what is to stop him from coming here?”

  Domingo pulled his hair back and tied a bandanna around his head. “I have told you, he will not come here, because he was Pancho Villa’s man, and Villa has never allowed his men to attack El Prado. As long as Villa lives, El Pantera will not come to Paradise Valley.”

  John Hershberger drew on his pipe and said thoughtfully, “But there must be others who do not belong to Villa’s army. Surely the new government will protect its people from such men.”

  “Jah, but the federales are spread thin. There are policemen in the cities and towns, but you have come to a far corner of the mountains. Here, we must protect ourselves.”

  The eyes of Ira and John were full of angst as they watched him unfasten his gun belt and lay it in the wagon on top of his poncho.

  “Domingo,” Caleb said, “if you were us, what would you do?”

  “If I were you I would arm myself and do what is necessary to protect my family.” Domingo spoke matter-of-factly, but he could not hide a little smirk—Caleb’s young friend knew what the Amish answer would be.