“We’ll need more tomorrow.” Mother came closer and examined the baking stone. A smile flitted across her lips when she saw Casita’s horse and rider. Her voice was a touch softer when she said, “Take yourselves off and find some more onions.”
“Both of us?” Casita asked.
“Juanita should know where they are, too,” her mother said.
Casita leapt to her feet and hurried away before Mother changed her mind. She led Juanita up the hill to the plateau overlooking the camp and river. During the last part of the walk, Casita had to carry little Miguel on her hip. Up here they could see past the bend in the river to where Jack was watering his pony, Choya. Directly below, they looked down at the busy camp. Mother was in front of the wickiup beating a skin with her special rock and scraping away the hair so the skin would be smooth. Then she would dye it yellow before making it into Casita’s Changing Woman ceremony dress. She had already started collecting food and gifts for the ceremony.
Casita looked away and sighed. Her mother’s words had helped to calm her fears about the ceremony. Every other Ndé woman had managed it, so Casita could certainly do it, too. Still, she was nervous. And what about afterward? As far as she could tell, being a woman of the tribe meant shouldering responsibility for everything: cooking, foraging, clothing, children, houses. It seemed that the men only had to hunt and fight. She would rather stay a child and have time she could call her own.
“Can you show me the steps to the dance of your ceremony?” Juanita asked, meaning the last dance, when Casita would twirl around with her cane. The purpose was to show the band she was physically fit to be a woman of the tribe. She would wear eagle feathers and her face would be dusted with pollen. The Goddess would bless her and then Casita would bless all the members of the tribe in return. Maybe Mother was right and the ceremony would be worth all the preparations.
Juanita was too little to understand Casita’s doubts, and Casita would not burden her cousin with them. Instead she would dance. She looked around for sticks to serve as canes. Finding two, she gave one to Juanita.
“I will show you,” Casita said. “But you have to dance, too. In a few summers this will be your dance.” They sat Miguel against a rock to watch. Then Casita started to dance, thumping the stick against the rock to set the rhythm. Her feet had long ago memorized the steps. Juanita mimicked every step. Soon they were dancing wildly until they were both out of breath and laughing. Miguel giggled so hard he fell over and couldn’t right himself without Juanita’s help.
They tossed their make-believe canes aside and flopped down on the ground to recover. After a brief silence, Juanita asked, “Is it true that during the ritual you will be able to heal the sick?”
It seemed impossible that any ritual could really give someone as ordinary as herself magical powers. Finally Casita answered, “I don’t know. We’ll know soon enough. Both of us.”
Content with that answer, Juanita was quiet. The sun was partway along its journey and it was getting hotter. A breeze from the other side of the river carried the sound of horse hooves striking stone. Casita sat up. Could it be her father returning so soon? Had something terrible happened? Her eyes scanned the river. There was no one. None of the people in the camp below seemed to have heard anything. Perhaps she had imagined it.
Suddenly a bugle sounded across the valley. A gunshot cracked the air. A second shot and then a third. Casita threw herself flat on the ground and crawled to the edge to see. At the crest of the rising hill across the river, a row of soldiers appeared, the sun at their backs. Hundreds of them, wearing the blue woolen uniform of the US Cavalry. To the sound of a merry bugle, the soldiers charged straight for her home.
CHAPTER TWO
CROUCHED ON THE LEDGE, CASITA COULDN’T MOVE, COULDN’T tear her eyes away. Although the soldiers were across the river, their noise was deafening. They were shouting and wildly shooting their guns into the air. She heard yells from the village; they knew danger was coming.
Juanita crawled out to look. She cried out when she saw the soldiers. “The Americans aren’t allowed here!” Juanita gasped.
“They came anyway!” Casita answered.
“We have to tell the village!” Juanita stood up to warn them.
Casita pulled Juanita to the ground. “Stay down! They know!” She forced her fear deep inside herself; she was responsible for Juanita and her brother. Helpless, they watched the confusion below. The women were trying to gather their children. Old men ran out of their huts, some not even dressed. They had no weapons, while every soldier carried a saber, a gun, and a bandolier of precious ammunition.
“Look!” Juanita pointed across the river. “There are even more up there.” Another group of soldiers was massed in the distance, at the top of the long slope leading to the village.
“They are waiting for their turn to attack,” Casita whispered. “There are too many.” The Ndé had never faced such an enemy. If only her father were still here. Without the men, the village didn’t stand a chance against so many. Her family, her friends, were as good as dead. Or worse, taken prisoner.
But wait! Jack was free. She crawled to the western edge of the plateau. Her eyes searched desperately for her brother with the horses, around the bend of the river, out of sight from the camp. He must have heard the gunshots; he was swinging his body onto the back of his pony and galloping toward the camp.
“No,” she shouted. “Run away, Jack! There are too many . . .” But her words were like tiny specks of dust in a storm. Her brother couldn’t possibly hear her. She crawled back from the ledge, dragging Juanita with her.
How could she help her people? She couldn’t. But she could make sure Juanita and her brother lived. And then try to help her own brother. After that, all Casita could do was stay alive.
“What do we do?” Juanita asked, her eyes fixed on Casita.
Casita picked Miguel up and thrust him into Juanita’s arms.
“Take Miguel and hide!” Casita ordered. “You know where!” Around every Ndé camp were places to go to ground, to keep safe from their enemies. Even the smallest child knew what to do.
“Come with us!” Juanita cried. Her hold on Miguel was so tight he began to cry.
“I have to help my brother! Keep Miguel quiet!” Casita shouted over her shoulder as she started down the slope. She slipped on the gravel, but she dared not slow. She must catch Jack before he charged into the camp. There were too many; he would be killed. But if she could catch him and convince him to run, they could gallop as fast as they could, into the desert where the bluebellies couldn’t track them.
She heard hooves splashing from the south. Stumbling, almost falling, she leapt in front of him as he came round the bend. “Stop!” she shouted.
Jack dragged the pony’s head to one side just in time to keep Casita from being trampled. Choya reared and Jack slid toward the pony’s tail, spinning his arms to keep his balance.
“Get out of the way, Sister!” he panted. He had smeared river mud on his face and chest like war paint. “We’re being attacked!”
“It’s the American soldiers. Hundreds of them!” she shouted back. “I saw them.” She pointed up toward the ridge.
Now she had Jack’s attention. “They must have known Father and the men were away on a raid.”
Casita nodded; it made sense. But as Jack gathered himself to take off, she tried to catch hold of the pony’s mane to stop him. “We have to run.”
His face hardened and it was no longer a little boy staring down at her. Jack had become a warrior. “The Ndé don’t run away!”
“To live, we do!” she cried. “They have guns. You’ll be killed.” Even as she said it, she knew it was no use. Jack wouldn’t miss his first chance to fight for their people.
“You go. I’ll defend our family. It’s what Father would want.”
“Father would want us to live,” Casita shouted.
“What about Mother?” he demanded.
As he said it, Jack
’s anger was winning over Casita’s common sense. How dare these soldiers attack their home and family? How could they run and leave Mother to die or be captured? Without saying a word, she pulled her knife from its sheath at her waist and stretched out her other hand to Jack. He grabbed her forearm and hauled her up behind him. She was barely astride the pony before Jack urged it on at a gallop toward the village. Casita’s arm tightened around Jack’s waist. His skin was slick with sweat; she could smell the fear and salt on him. His back tensed and he let out a war cry worthy of their father.
The soldiers were at the other end of the camp from their wickiup.
“We’re in time,” she said in his ear.
“No, we aren’t,” he said, pointing at a soldier riding toward them hard. He was a big man, with a bushy mustache. The sun was shining in Casita’s eyes and she couldn’t make out his face.
All the other noises faded to nothing and all they heard was the soldier’s long whoops and the pounding of his horse’s hooves. At first Casita thought he was heading toward them, but then she realized he was intent on a defiant figure. Her mother.
She stood in front of their wickiup, an axe in her hand. Tall and fierce, she hollered a war cry of her own, daring the soldier to fight her. Casita felt a thrill of pride; this was what it was to be Ndé!
Jack swung the pony’s body between them. Casita tumbled off and hurried to her mother. The soldier dismounted, too. He didn’t call for help. A woman and two children did not frighten him, Casita saw. He would soon learn that Ndé women and children knew how to fight.
Jack leapt off his pony. His lips drawn and his teeth bared, he gripped his knife, pointing it downward.
The soldier pushed him aside to reach Mother. Jack ducked under his arm and stabbed the soldier in his side. With a yowl of pain, the soldier whirled back and brought the butt of his rifle onto Jack’s head. Casita’s brother fell hard to the ground and lay motionless. The soldier paused and knelt down to see if Jack were still alive.
Casita started to run to him, but her mother held her back. Mother’s eyes were wild, as though they did not see Casita. “No, daughter,” she cried. “If he’s not dead, they will take him. He is gone. You must run!”
“Only if you come with me!”
With a last look toward Jack, Mother grabbed her hand and they started running. If they could reach the safety of the hills, they could hide. They might live.
Casita tripped and fell. Her mother tried to pull her to her feet, but Casita’s ankle buckled underneath her and she fell again.
“Stay down!” her mother ordered, standing in front of her, brandishing her axe. The soldier was staggering after them, holding his side where Jack had stabbed him. His pistol was in his hand. Mother cried out, but Casita couldn’t make out her words. The soldier slowed. At first she thought her mother’s words had turned him back, but no. He raised the pistol and aimed it at Mother.
“Run, Mother!” Casita begged. “Save yourself!”
Her mother didn’t say a word; she just planted her feet to brace herself. What good would that do against a bullet? The soldier barked an order. Casita knew some English. He was telling Mother to drop the axe.
Casita pleaded in Ndé, “Drop the axe, Mother. Please. The soldiers will have us, but we’ll be together.”
Her mother’s eyes didn’t leave the soldier. Almost as though it were a prayer, she muttered, “They must not take us. Better to die than live on a reservation.” Mother’s lips twisted and she tightened her grip on the axe.
Suddenly a shot rang out and Mother’s body jerked. As Casita looked up from the ground, a black hole appeared in the center of her mother’s stomach and a crimson stain spread in all directions.
“Mother!” Casita cried as she crawled to where her mother had fallen. Casita pressed against the wound, but there was too much bleeding. Tears flowing down her cheeks, she buried her head against her mother’s chest. The fighting around them seemed to fade, the sound of bullets hushed.
“Daughter.” Her mother’s voice stopped Casita’s crying. “Close your eyes. I don’t want you to see.”
“Mother!”
“Close your eyes!”
Casita obeyed. Suddenly, there was a terrible blow to her forehead. She opened her eyes but they were full of blood. Was this what a bullet felt like?
Throwing up her arms to ward off another attack, she cried, “Mother! Help me!”
A second blow to her shoulder brought only darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
PAIN. SMOKE. CASITA DID NOT WANT TO COME BACK FROM THE blackness. Reluctantly she opened her eyes. She tried to push herself up, but her head exploded in a burst of searing pain. Touching her forehead, she felt blood. Not only her head, but her shoulders, too, were covered with blood. Why wasn’t she dead?
As she forced herself to sit up, a wave of nausea swept through her. She retched into the dirt until her stomach was empty. When she was able to raise her head again, she could see the battle was over. Bodies lay everywhere. But she didn’t spot a single dead soldier. They were all Ndé.
“Fire the village!” The loud command in English was echoed by one soldier to another. Casita’s father had brought her to the American forts when she was younger. He had been proud of how quickly she had learned English. But now, she wished she didn’t understand the soldiers’ orders.
Two sets of boots came running past her. They were young boys, just barely men, and they were chattering like magpies. Carrying torches, they cheered as they put the flames to the dried grasses of the wickiups, including her own.
One boy stepped back to survey his handiwork and stumbled against the mound of dirt over the agave hearts.
“Caleb, there’s something under here!” the boy hollered to his friend.
They both dug, the loose dirt easy to shift. All the while, they glanced back to the battlefield as if to be sure they weren’t seen. The first boy put his hand in and pulled out a roasted agave heart. He yelped as it burned his fingers. Casita knew if things were different, she would laugh at the greedy boys looking for treasure in a roasting pit. But for now, all she could think of was how hard the women had worked to build the oven. And now no one would ever eat the agave hearts.
All the wickiups and teepees were burning. The soldiers were going to leave nothing. Her stomach twisted when she saw soldiers toss a body into the flames. Everywhere she looked it was like having a piece of her heart shredded. Her aunts and uncles and cousins. The children, too. Having gotten rid of one body, the solders went back for another. It was . . . efficient. Death was awful enough, but to be burned without ritual was even worse. She let tears flow down her cheeks—it was the only thing she could do to honor her people.
Soon the soldiers would come for her, too; she had to think of herself now. If she could reach the hills, she might survive. She began crawling, trying to keep her pounding head as still as she could.
“Jeremiah, there’s one,” Caleb said to the other boy.
She held herself motionless like a hare trying to deceive a coyote. She was sure they had spotted her. But the footsteps stopped at a woman’s body a dozen steps from her. The woman lay limp, her long hair trailing on the ground. The boys picked her up, one taking the feet, the other her shoulders. A mirrored pendant fell from the body’s neck, suspended by a thin strip of leather. She shook her head. No. It couldn’t be. It must not be Mother. Mother wasn’t a body. Even if she wore Mother’s necklace and a buckskin dress, with a crimson stain spread across the front.
Caleb tore the necklace away and stowed it in his pocket. They brought the body to the burning hut and tossed it in.
Casita heard a low mournful sound grow louder and louder. The awful noise was coming from her own mouth. “Mother!” she cried. “No, Mother!”
Caleb and Jeremiah turned, looking for the source of the sound. Casita clapped her hand over her lips, but it was too late.
“There’s a live one!” Caleb cried. They came running over to Casita, Je
remiah pulling a pistol from a holster at his hip. His hand shook as he aimed the gun at her.
“It’s just a little girl,” Jeremiah complained, but there was relief in his voice.
“She’s hurt bad,” Caleb said. “We could save ourselves some trouble and just throw her on the fire.”
Casita tried to crawl away, though her head was swimming in pain. Caleb grabbed her feet and pulled her back.
“It’s almost like she understands us,” Jeremiah laughed.
Casita knew she mustn’t reveal she knew English. She mustn’t lose the only advantage she had, no matter how tempting.
“What should we do with her?” Jeremiah asked.
Before Caleb could answer, they were interrupted. “You two! Is that girl alive?” A soldier had come up from behind them. He was familiar. Nursing a limp and pressing his hand to his side, Casita remembered how Jack had stabbed him. Her lips twisted in a smile; at least her brother had drawn blood. At least one soldier had paid a price for what they had done to her people.
Caleb nudged her with his boot. She curled up, trying to protect herself. “She’s hurt bad,” he said.
The soldier looked more closely at Casita. “I remember that one.”
“Did you do this to her, Sergeant?” Jeremiah jibed. “She’s awfully little for you to fight, ain’t she?”
With his free hand, the soldier cuffed Jeremiah’s head. “I didn’t touch the girl—one of her own did that.”
Before Casita could work out what that meant, the soldier went on. “Captain Carter wants as many Apache prisoners as we can carry—so take her to the sawbones and get her fixed up for the ride back.”
“She might not make it, Sergeant.”
He shrugged. “Then she dies on the road.”
As the boys picked her up, Casita didn’t resist—she felt as though all her strength had flowed out into the dirt. Mother had died rather than be taken prisoner. What would she want Casita to do now? What could she do?
Although he was as skinny as a sapling grown too fast, Caleb still lifted her easily off the ground. His blue coat, unbuttoned to the waist, smelled of smoke, sweat, and dirty wool. Her stomach churned and if she’d had anything left to throw up, she would have.
The Lost Ones Page 2
