The Lost Ones

by Michaela MacColl

Watching with suspicious eyes, Casita said, “I see.” This must be something he had planned, but she didn’t see how.

  Jack was a fast runner. He came alongside the beast and grabbed its mane to swing atop the animal. Oddly, Jack didn’t lower himself into the saddle. Instead he shifted his weight to the horse’s shoulders and calmly rode back to Brody. The soldiers cheered and applauded. When Jack dismounted, Brody pounded Jack’s back in approval. “Well done, son!”

  Mollie clapped as loud as the rest. “That was so brave!”

  “Yes, it certainly was,” Casita said slowly.

  That evening, she confronted Jack. “Brother, how did that horse just happen to go wild at that moment?”

  “There might have been a metal spur under the saddle,” he admitted slyly.

  “So when Brody mounted . . .” Casita worked it out. “But then how did you ride it back?”

  “Maybe I was careful not to put any weight on the saddle.”

  Jack had been clever. Father would have approved heartily. It was the kind of stratagem he would have liked. “But why did you do it?” she asked.

  “The soldiers like me now,” he said simply. “I told you I could do it.”

  After that, Jack only worked with the most difficult horses, and he became a favorite with the best riders. One night at dinner Charles called him their mascot. Casita wasn’t sure what that meant, but Charles seemed pleased. So did Jack.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Mollie said. “They are so much older than he is.”

  “The Army is like that. We are a band of brothers,” Charles explained. “Jack has replaced his old family with a new one.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE HOUSEHOLD WAS CONTENT NOW THAT JACK WAS SATISFIED with his new life. Everything was going so well that Casita let down her guard, but she should have known that Jack could not stay docile for long.

  Sunday was the day that most of the soldiers were off duty, either resting or drinking in town or playing games. One hot Sunday afternoon, Casita followed Jack to the end of the parade ground. A group of soldiers were unloading a crate and setting up for a game of baseball. Casita knew that teams were made up of nine people, but this day there were dozens of people milling about. Seminole Jim was there, too, with a young boy who must have been his son.

  One of the team captains greeted Jack. “Jacko! I’m glad you could come. We need someone with your speed.”

  Jacko? When had Jack lost his name?

  Jack nodded happily before running to the crate to pull out the bases, tossing them to the other players. Casita was reminded how the boys at El Remolino had fetched axes and knives for the warriors, desperately trying to attract their attention and favor. Jack was doing well.

  “Casita, bring the bats to home base,” he said. Casita had never had a chance to see the bats up close. As she laid them out in a row by the base, she ran her hands over the smooth wood of the whittled branches.

  “This is an American game,” a low voice said behind her. “For whites only.”

  She knew it was Caleb. She had heard from Mollie that he had accompanied a patient to an Army hospital back East, and she had hoped he would stay there.

  “I don’t understand why you and your brother are still here. You’re like cats with nine lives. You should be dead or on the reservation by now.”

  There was nothing she could say to make him hate her less, so she turned away. He grabbed her arm. Instantly, Jack was at her side. “Leave my sister alone,” he said. He only came up to Caleb’s shoulder, but Caleb dropped Casita’s arm—but not before he added, “No Indians allowed.”

  Passing by, the team captain said, “You’ve got that wrong. I want Jack on my team.”

  The captain was an officer—baseball was one of the few pastimes that officers and enlisted men shared—so Caleb didn’t dare speak his mind. Waiting until the captain had moved away, Caleb stepped close to Jack and pulled back his arm to punch him.

  Jack had plenty of time to dodge the blow, but he let the punch land on his mouth. Suddenly all the players were watching. A fight was as good a distraction as a baseball game.

  Jack’s lip was bleeding but he was smiling. Casita knew he couldn’t have planned this, but somehow she knew this was exactly what he wanted.

  Jack called to Casita in English, “Sister, some water.”

  Seminole Jim gave her his canteen. As she passed it to Jack, she asked, “Are you sure about this?”

  “I know what I am doing.” Jack faced the crowd and took a long swallow of the water, almost as though it were part of a ceremony.

  Caleb put up his fists, but Jack was too quick. Jack closed in early and landed a sharp blow to the bridge of Caleb’s nose. Blood covered Caleb’s mouth and chin. He staggered, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand.

  “Yes!” Casita shouted. Caleb had frightened her for too long.

  Jack’s fists slammed against Caleb’s rib cage until Caleb fell to the ground. In an instant, Jack was on his chest, one hand round his throat. He held up the other arm above his head. The onlookers cheered and Seminole Jim declared Jack the winner.

  Jack leapt to his feet. Making sure he had everyone’s attention, he spat out the water he had taken before the fight. It was a Ndé training technique to complete some feat—a sparring match, a run up a steep hill—and not swallow the water. Casita grinned. Good for Jack! The soldiers took a moment longer to understand; then they roared with approval. They put Jack on their shoulders and paraded around the baseball field. Jack was a hero.

  Caleb remained on the ground, humiliated.

  Casita did not like Caleb. He had tormented her, but now she felt sorry for him. He had no idea how skilled a Ndé warrior was, even one as young as Jack. She went over to Caleb and offered him her hand.

  “Stay away from me!” he said, batting her hand away. “I don’t need help from a filthy Indian.” He clambered to his feet and his nose started gushing blood.

  “You once helped me when I was hurt,” she said.

  “I should have let you die.”

  “But you didn’t. You brought me to Mollie Smith.”

  “I can’t believe she’s still fooled by you. Letting you live in her house, feeding you like you’re her kin. . . . Doesn’t she know who you really are?”

  Casita dropped her hand and started to walk away.

  “Your own mother didn’t even want you . . .”

  Casita stopped, and slowly turned around. “You know nothing about me!”

  He jabbed at her shoulder and neck. “I know more than you think. I know who tried to kill you at Remolino.”

  “It was a soldier,” Casita insisted. “During the battle!”

  “I wonder if you believe that or if you just can’t help lying? I know it was your mother.”

  Casita shook her head. A remembered pain was stabbing at her scalp and shoulders. “No it wasn’t. She was dead.”

  “I talked to the sergeant who killed your mother.”

  Casita remembered that soldier only too well. She remembered the look in his eyes as he aimed his pistol at Mother’s body. She put her head in her hands, trying to make the pain stop.

  Caleb went on, “He said your own mother brought a rock down on your head and neck. Not once but three times!”

  Casita’s fingers were rubbing her scars. Three of them. What exactly did she remember? Her mother had been shot. Casita had been crawling on her knees, away from the battle, trying desperately to reach the safety of the hills. In that moment, when her back was turned, she felt a sharp pain at the top of her back. In her head. Then she remembered nothing at all.

  “You’re worthless,” Caleb said viciously. “Even your own mother hated you.”

  Slowly and deliberately, she said, “I am glad my brother beat you and shamed you in front of everyone.”

  Caleb’s bluster seemed to disappear like rain in the desert.

  Casita walked away, toward home. She felt dizzy, as though she had fallen from a great he
ight and hit the ground hard.

  Caleb’s words made her question everything she knew. She remembered her mother so clearly: tall and serene, roasting agave hearts. Her strong fingers braiding Casita’s hair. Her calm voice reassuring Casita about the Changing Woman ceremony. How could that mother hurt her? But Mother hated the Indaa. She had died rather than be taken prisoner. Had she wanted Casita to die too? How dare she try to take Casita’s life? She wanted to strike out at her mother, but she was long dead. Casita’s loyalty to her had been the thing that still lived.

  The Smiths’ house was in front of her now. Mollie was sitting on the porch, shucking some of the early peas Casita had coaxed out of the ground. Mollie waved. “Look at what’s happening!” She put the peas aside and pointed to the soldiers’ barracks. The soldiers found an old blanket and four of them each took a corner and spread it out tight. Then another soldier tossed Jack onto the blanket.

  “It’s a sign they have accepted him,” Mollie said. “They do it for all the new recruits. Jack is truly one of them now.”

  One of them. Jack had done exactly what she had insisted he do—he had adapted to life among the Indaa. He wore their clothes and spoke their language. And he had managed to become a warrior by combining his traditions with theirs.

  “I never thought he would do this well,” Mollie said. “Charles will be so happy. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Casita had been so loyal to her mother that she had never properly appreciated this kind woman.

  She grabbed Mollie’s hand and said, “Yes, it is . . . Mama.”

  PART THREE

  “IN INDIAN CIVILIZATION I AM A BAPTIST, BECAUSE I BELIEVE IN IMMERSING THE INDIAN IN OUR CIVILIZATION AND WHEN WE GET THEM UNDER, HOLDING THEM THERE UNTIL THEY ARE THOROUGHLY SOAKED.”

  —Richard H. Pratt

  Founder of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  February 1880 (three years later)

  THE BUGLE SOUNDED “REVEILLE” BEFORE CASITA FINISHED TYING her second shoe.

  “Jack, I think you cheated,” she muttered to herself. For the last six months, Jack had played the tune to wake up the camp. Charles, who had once played with the Regimental Band, had taught him the instrument. Casita had always disliked how the Army acted as if the sun wouldn’t rise without the lively tune, but once Jack was bugling, it had become a private game between them. Could Casita wake and dress on her own before Jack put the bugle to his lips? He had won this time.

  She looked around her room to check that everything was spick and span—an expression Charles had taught her. Keeping it clean was much easier now that Mollie had insisted Casita have a room to herself. Jack had made himself a shelter on the platform and stayed there year-round. Casita’s bed was neatly made and her clothes folded and put away. Charles would inspect it later; he liked to say she was in the US Army now. Casita decorated her room with her own drawings: horses on parade, Mollie’s flowers in the yard, even Jack’s trumpet. On the small table next to her bed was a picture she had just started. It was to be a surprise for Mollie.

  Casita hurried to the kitchen to start the stove. Mollie was expecting a baby and Casita liked to make her hot tea every morning. She also prepared the porridge on the stove and brought in the milk from the icebox on the porch.

  “You are a godsend,” Mollie said, accepting the hot beverage gratefully. She maneuvered herself onto a chair. The baby had already grown big, even though the birth was not for another month. Casita hadn’t believed her when Mollie had pointed to a date on the calendar and said that was the day the baby would come. Only the Indaa would try to put a timetable on a baby as if it were the stagecoach. Among the Ndé, the baby came when it wanted to. A mother would only start preparing a cradleboard in the last days before it arrived. But Charles had already built a crib, and Mollie had knitted half a dozen blankets.

  At first Casita had worried that the date on the calendar was also the day that Mollie would send them away. After all, she and Jack had been temporary substitutes for Mollie’s own children. When she had finally found the courage to ask, Mollie had been shocked. Angry, even. “Casita, my baby is the luckiest in the world. He—or she—already has a wonderful big sister and brother.”

  As Casita set the table, Mollie watched her over the steaming mug. “Look at your hair,” she said. “It’s grown so long. How long has it been since you cut it?”

  “Almost three years.” Her braided hair went to the middle of her back now. Casita didn’t like to remember why she had cut it. She had become quite good at forgetting her mother. “I missed it when it was short.”

  “Jack has kept his hair short like the soldiers,” Mollie said. “Charles says in a few years, Jack could enlist. I wish he would think of doing something else. One military man is enough for this family.”

  “He’s still very young,” Casita said. Mollie guessed that Jack was eleven or twelve now. Among the Ndé, the number of summers mattered less than what you accomplished. A Ndé boy was considered an adult and a warrior after he participated in four raids. Maybe that was why Jack wanted to be a soldier.

  A Ndé girl grew up after her Changing Woman ceremony. Casita’s monthly bleeding had come the previous year. Mollie had been very matter-of-fact, teaching Casita how to clean her underthings and how to make herself more comfortable. She had also insisted Casita sleep in her own room.

  For the Indaa, the passage to being a woman was only a physical change. There was nothing spiritual about it. Casita would never dance in the Changing Woman ceremony. She was a woman now, but without the ceremony, she was forever apart from the Ndé. An exile. Casita had been afraid of the ceremony when she was younger, but now she regretted that she had missed it.

  She wondered if any of the girls in her family were still alive to do the ritual. Had Juanita survived the raid? She knew the Army still hunted the Lipan Apaches, but they found fewer and fewer of them these days. Charles thought that meant they were dead, but Seminole Jim had told her that the survivors were hidden in Mexico. If that were true, how would Juanita have her ceremony?

  Casita shook her head to rid herself of these sad thoughts. She had made her choice. Her history might be Ndé, but her future lay with the Indaa. She was a white girl with dark skin. Whenever she found herself mourning the past, she pressed on the scars at her neck and scalp until they hurt. They were the perfect reminder that her old life was filled with pain.

  “Is there coffee for me, Casita?” Charles asked her from the doorway.

  “Here, Papa,” she said, pouring him a cup from the metal coffee pot. She wrinkled her nose; no matter how long she had lived with the Smiths, she had never developed a taste for it.

  “I need some, too,” Jack said, coming in from outside. He had grown at least half a foot in the last three years, and he was the same height as Casita now. He put his trumpet case on the table and rubbed his cold hands together. “My lips almost froze on the trumpet.”

  “This isn’t cold at all!” Mollie said. “In Pennsylvania, where I grew up, it gets so cold that the windows are covered with ice.”

  Casita and Jack grinned. To them, Mollie’s stories of faraway Pennsylvania sounded like fairy tales.

  “If we ever visit,” Charles said, “we’ll be sure to go in winter. I’d like you to see snow. And I bet Jack would be a natural at ice skating.”

  Jack looked questioningly at Casita. She lifted her shoulders; she didn’t know what ice skating was either.

  As Casita handed Jack his coffee, she whispered, “Are you sure the sun had risen before you played ‘Reveille,’ Brother?”

  “The sun looked like it was up to me,” he said. “You just have to be quicker.”

  Jack left soon to go to the stables. After she finished her chores, schoolwork was always the highlight of Casita’s day. Casita and Mollie were hard at work on geography that afternoon. Mollie had borrowed a map of the United States and was showing Casita how the country had expanded westward.

 
; “It’s out of date,” Mollie apologized. “It’s from before the war. Nevada and Nebraska are still territories here, not states.”

  “And we are here?” Casita put her palm over the large wedge shape that was labeled Texas.

  Mollie nodded. “And I come from there.” She pointed to a long rectangle in the upper right-hand side that was labeled Pennsylvania.

  Casita barely glanced at Pennsylvania; it was the map of Texas that fascinated her. She traced her finger on the squiggly line between Texas and Mexico. “The Great River,” she said.

  “The Rio Grande,” Mollie corrected.

  The land south of the river was blank, as though the mapmaker only cared about the United States.

  “What about Mexico?” Casita asked.

  Mollie looked surprised. “I can ask if there is a Mexican map we can borrow. Would you would like to see where you came from?”

  “No, it’s not important,” Casita said shortly. She did not want to see El Remolino, even if it were only a tiny printed name on a map. To look back was to risk being hurt again. So Casita changed the subject: “This blue on either side—that is water?” It must be an illusion of the mapmaker; there was no possible way the world could hold so much water and not drown.

  Mollie smiled and nodded. “I’ve never seen the Pacific, but I saw the Atlantic Ocean once.”

  Casita put the tip of her finger on tiny Maine, up in the northeast corner. Then she walked her fingers across the whole great land until she reached Texas. Texas had been Apache land. And the Comanches had come from the north in Oklahoma. Here was New Mexico, where the Mescaleros lived. Her finger trotted up to the Dakotas. This was Sioux country—Charles was always talking about how much trouble the Sioux gave the Army. Finally she made it to California with its huge ocean. She guessed that every part of this map had once belonged to Indians. The Indaa had started with a little sliver of Eastern land and had taken everything in their path until they reached the opposite side.

  Casita was so intent on the map, she didn’t hear the knock at the door.