John had given up trying to get his hands loose from the leather ties that bound his wrists. They were too raw to pull at the bindings any longer. His captor pulled him up and shoved him into a tipi, barking something to him in the Comanche tongue that John was sure meant that he should stay put.
He looked around inside the conical dwelling. Paintings, mostly of horses and battles, decorated the walls. The tipi was bigger than he’d expected, and cooler. He was himself mostly Indian, yet such a dwelling was not familiar to him. He wondered at the fact that his father had lived this way once. Caleb Sax had been as wild and vicious as these Comanche.
The boy closed his eyes and prayed Caleb was still alive. If he was, he would come for him. Of that John had no doubt.
Outside, drums began beating and the boy’s heart pounded. What would they do with him? So far he had been tossed around like a sack of potatoes, fed little, and given almost no water. He understood almost nothing of the Comanche language. Perhaps they intended to torture him slowly. Did they do that to twelve-year-old boys? He was already so numb from exhaustion that perhaps he would not feel the pain so much.
Again the lump rose in his throat. He missed home. Even if they didn’t kill him, he would probably never see home again, unless his father came for him. But he felt selfish hoping for that. Surely to come for him would mean certain death. But that wouldn’t stop Caleb Sax … unless the man was already dead.
Maybe he would die out here in the middle of nowhere, or at best be made a slave of his Comanche captor. He must draw on his Indian spirit now, perhaps learn to be Indian to survive. Caleb would expect that of him.
“Please come, Pa,” he whispered. He sniffed, and unwanted tears spilled down his dirty cheeks. He bent up his knees and quickly wiped them away on his pants so no Comanche would see.
* * *
The drums pounded hauntingly, while men yipped and women chanted. The sounds were chilling to Lee and Tom, who had never really lived the life of wilder Indians, but the sounds were not unfamiliar to Caleb Sax. Caleb himself was not now the man Lee and Tom had always known. He was Blue Hawk again, and he would make war against the Comanche the same way he had ridden against the Crow in vengeance for his Cheyenne wife’s death. Only now, he must rescue his son.
They had searched for over two weeks, and both the younger men knew only Caleb’s Indian instincts kept them from being seen by the Comanche. They felt baked from the sun, and their skin was sore from constant battles with spiny ocotillo bushes, cactus, and the countless other thorny, mean plants that defied anyone to come to this land. Tom’s left shirtsleeve was torn and the skin cut from catching on the long spike of a mesquite branch, and they had had more than one encounter with rattlesnakes.
Caleb’s strength and determination astounded the two younger men, who ached from too many days of almost constant riding. They were weary to the bone from too little sleep and too little food, which was always cold when they got it, because Caleb refused to build any fires for fear of being spotted by the Comanche. Both young men knew Caleb had to be hurting, but he never showed it. The man had grown visibly thinner and his eyes looked bloodshot, but a hard strength could be felt in his very presence.
The Comanche they had been trailing had finally stopped to make camp in a red-rock canyon. Whether or not John was with this party, none of them could know. Only two days before, they had come across a burned-out supply wagon, its driver’s blackened body lying slumped beside a wheel. Finding the man made Caleb ride even harder. They all worried that the next body they found might be John’s.
The three of them sat in a hollow above the canyon where the Comanche were celebrating. They were out of sight of the village and its scouts. Their horses were tethered nearby behind thick yucca bushes, the poor animals’ legs full of cuts and scratches.
Tom and Lee sat waiting for instructions. They watched Caleb quietly. He sat with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, remembering another time and place—another Caleb, the Sun Dance ritual and its pain, the power and pride he had felt at surviving his test of manhood. He had not felt his Indian instincts so strongly for a long time, yet the way of life of his youth was coming back so easily.
“The Comanche feel this is their land,” he told Lee and Tom after several minutes of meditation. He opened his amazingly blue eyes and studied them both. “Just as the Cherokee feel Georgia belongs to them. Everywhere such things are happening to the Indians. My white half battles with my red half. Always there is this war in my soul. I know the Indian is right in wanting to hold what is his, and it could work—Indian and white man side by side, if the white man would keep his promises. But all of us know he never does and never will. Your grandfather learned that, Lee, when he was forced to give up that government land and come to Texas.”
He sighed deeply, from terrible weariness. The man was nearly spent, but Tom knew he would never give in to his aching bones, not until he had John back.
“All of us react differently when we’re threatened,” Caleb continued. “The Comanche react by attacking the settlers and trying to scare them out. They’re angry, and they’re dying. They steal young children, partly to bring heartache to the settlers, but also to add to their own numbers. They make Indians of them and intermarry with them. John is part Indian. He could adjust. But he’s my son and I intend to get him back. Until he learns their ways, they’ll be cruel to him. And if he offends them in some way, they’ll kill him. We have to get him out.”
He took a long, polished wooden pipe from his parfleche. “We will smoke, and pray. It’s important to pray for strength. God is many things to many men. To me He is Maheo, the Great Spirit of the Cheyenne. To Lee, now a Christian, He is Jehova. To you, Tom, He is Maheo. I raised you on Cheyenne beliefs. But Jehova, Maheo, they are the same. We must be strong. And we must be swift, for John’s sake.”
He stuffed the stone bowl of the pipe and lit it, and a wonderfully sweet aroma from the smoke penetrated their nostrils. Caleb drew on the pipe, then handed it to Tom. “My first son, my beloved first son, who was all the reason I had to live for many years. Take the pipe and smoke it. Offer it high, first, to the God of the Sky, Heammawihio; then to the God of the Earth, Ahktunowihio; then to the Great Spirit, Maheo. Give the pipe then to Lee.”
Tom did as he was told. It had been a long time since he had seen his father this way. He knew there was this side to him, this very spiritual, powerful being who drew on a certain strength few men possessed. How else could Caleb Sax have survived the many losses in his life … his Indian father; the white man, Tom Sax, who had become like a father to him; his Cheyenne wife; his Cherokee wife and son; and once thinking he had also lost Sarah. Now another son was in danger. Caleb Sax was determined not to lose this one.
They all sat quietly as the pipe was offered and smoked, then handed it back to Caleb, who held it out in front of him.
“We have followed these Comanche for over two weeks,” Caleb said then. “We have found no trace of John. That means they don’t know we’re following. If they did, they would leave his dead and mutilated body for us to find, just to be cruel. It also means John is still alive. We have to be very careful. If they discover us before we get our hands on John, he’s dead.”
“So what do you want us to do, Father?” Tom asked.
Caleb took one more puff on the pipe, breathing deeply. “There are many of them—only three of us. They have not yet reached full camp. This is just a small camp on the way. If we don’t strike soon, we won’t have a chance once they reach the bigger village.” He set the pipe aside. “When I was warring against the Crow, sometimes alone, I used the element of surprise. That’s what we’ll do now. They are not expecting us now like they were a few days earlier. They think we’re too afraid to come into Comanche country to come after John. Our advantage is being Indian and knowing how they think—how to keep from being detected. We’ll make our move after dark.”
“But you don’t know if John is even in any of those tipis,�
� Lee said.
“I intend to find out—tonight. That drumming is a celebration. They’ll all be drunk by tonight. I’m going down and see if I can find John in any of the tipis.”
“You’re going in there alone?” Tom asked. “They’ll kill you!”
“They won’t even know I’m there. When it’s necessary I can be as invisible as the wind.”
Tom looked him over with concern, wondering how his tall, broad father intended to make himself invisible. Caleb smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. You two will wait for me. As soon as I’ve found John’s tipi, I’ll come back here and we’ll all go down together. You will wait in the shadows while I cut the tipi skins loose from stakes in the back of the tipi, enough to allow me to crawl under. My guess is John is being watched by only one man—the one who captured him. He’ll be celebrating tonight also. There might not be anyone at all inside the tipi, but if there is, I’ll kill him quickly enough—and quietly. You two keep watch. If someone approaches, or if there’s trouble, use your rifles and shout war cries. That will surprise and confuse them—I hope enough to give me time to get out with John. We’ll ride hard and fast. They’ll have trouble finding us at night. It will give us a head start. Besides that, the way they’re situated, they have to come up the path to the top of the canyon no more than two at a time. That will slow them down even more. And if we’re real lucky, they won’t bother to come at all. They still have the horses. We’ll leave them. There’s no way we can get them out of there, and John is the only thing that’s important. Between being satisfied with the horses, and their own hesitation to ride at night, we have a good chance.”
“What if we’re caught?” Tom asked Caleb.
Their eyes held. “A man’s only hope then is to be brave. The Comanche have been known to release a prisoner who refused to cry out under torture—out of respect for his courage.”
“That’s not very reassuring,” Lee put in.
“It’s the best I can offer. Just remember that once we make our move, it’s torture for all of us if we fail. So I have one order. Kill John if it looks like there’s no way out. I don’t want him to suffer, and by God, Comanche know how to make a man suffer. They have their own religious reasons, but I don’t intend for my son to be a part of their ceremonies. Understood? You’ll not be held to blame. Kill him and do it quickly.”
A lump rose in Tom’s throat. “We’ll do it.”
Caleb nodded. “First I will put on war paint for power, and the two of you will also wear the paint. Then I will go down there first. Be ready—and remember, surprise. It’s our only hope. Surprise—and move fast. Use those Indian instincts you were born with. This one’s for your sister, Lee—for Marie, God rest her soul. That’s her son down there. We lost one. We’re not going to lose this one.”
Lee nodded. “For Marie. We can do it, Caleb.”
Caleb held out his hand and the other two put theirs on top of it, feeling a certain power at touching Caleb Sax.
Sarah sat up and sipped the tea Mildred Handel brought her. The Handels were two of the many foreigners who had come to Texas to settle on vast amounts of free land, people from another world hoping to find a freedom they had never known before. None realized the dangers they were risking in coming to Texas until they were already there, and none wanted the war that now seemed imminent with Mexico.
The Handels had come to Texas four years before. Because their land adjoined Caleb’s to the southeast, Caleb had soon befriended them. He was fascinated with their foreign ways, and the Handels were fascinated by the Indian next door. Sarah was grateful for their friendly helpfulness, and for the companionship of Mildred Handel, although the two women were always too busy to visit very often.
Now Sarah lay in bed in a spare room of the Handels’ small log house. She could only pray the help left at the ranch would be able to take care of things until Caleb returned—if he returned. It was the middle of the night, and twenty days since Caleb, Tom, and Lee had ridden off. Sarah wondered how much longer she could stand the suspense, and she worried about Lynda, who also had trouble sleeping and who sat in the outer room now knitting a sweater for her unborn baby, trying to keep busy.
“Drink it all,” Mildred urged Sarah, her German accent so heavy she was sometimes difficult to understand. “You are still very weak, Mrs. Sax.”
Sarah sighed, smiling sadly at the sturdy German woman. “I’d get well faster if I knew Caleb was all right.”
“Ach! That Caleb! When he rode in here with you, I thought we were the ones being attacked—all that paint and wild look! Feel sorry for the Comanche, I say! Do not worry about Caleb Sax!”
Sarah had to smile, but it did little to alleviate the worry in her soul. “Still, there are only three of them, Mildred. And Caleb is …” Her eyes teared. “What would I do without my Caleb—now, after finding him again?”
The woman patted her hand. “You would survive. And we would help you.”
Sarah set down her cup. “You’re so kind to us, Mildred. Surely you know some of the others around here are speaking against Caleb—saying Indians shouldn’t get to own any of this land. So far there’s been no real trouble, but so many Southerners are coming into Texas, I feel it’s going to get worse.”
“It is terrible, what they say! Caleb Sax is a fine man—runs a good place—a hard worker like my Wil. We appreciate good workers, strong people. We will stick by you. Any time you need us, like now, you feel free to come to us. I am glad your husband took up my Wil’s offer to help. There might be a time when you can help us. We cannot bicker over race in a place like this, Sarah. We all need to work together to survive.”
Sarah nodded. “Yes, we do.”
“Ah, and that baby of yours! Such a fine-looking boy he is—so strong and healthy, too. I have never been able to give my Wil a child. It is a sad spot in my heart.”
“It must be. I’m so sorry, Mildred.”
The woman shrugged. She was forty now, but looked older, her hair starting to gray. She was a short, plump woman with a quick smile but a stern look to her face when not smiling. “There are worse things in life, I suppose, like what you are going through now—this terrible worry. It must be so terrible to love someone as you say you loved your Caleb, and then be separated from him for so long. All those years—thinking he was dead—and your daughter, too. And then finding them both. Every time I think about it, I want to cry,” Mildred carried on in a singsong pitch. “Such a story of miracles. And now you have the little baby. Life will be good for you, Sarah.”
Sarah sipped more tea, hoping it would help quell the tears. “I hope so,” she answered. She sighed deeply and swallowed. “Sometimes it seems like only yesterday when Caleb and I were little children at Fort Dearborn—and other times it seems like a century ago. We’ve both been through so much since then.”
“You never told me how it was you thought each other dead. Why don’t you tell me, Sarah? You need to talk. You are lying around thinking too much.”
Sarah smiled sadly, meeting the woman’s steady brown eyes. Mildred Handel was a wise woman, a kind woman. “It’s a long story, Mildred.”
“I have all night. I, too, am having trouble sleeping.”
Sarah looked down at the teacup, running her finger around its rim. “It would help me to talk, I suppose.” She smiled softly. “I knew Caleb as a child. That was at Fort Dearborn, where I lived with my mother and stepfather. My stepfather was also my uncle, Tom Sax, brother to my real father, Terrence Sax, who lived in St. Louis. Terrence Sax was quite wealthy. It’s a long and sad story—about my mother and the two brothers. But Tom Sax is the man she really loved, and I loved him, too. I thought of him as my father in those early years.”
She sighed deeply. “At any rate, Tom adopted Caleb into our family, and we were like brother and sister. Then my mother died, and things were getting dangerous around Fort Dearborn, what with a war brewing between England and America. I was sent to St. L
ouis to be with my real father.” She shook her head. “I hated it there. And I lost track of Caleb. He went west to find his Indian relatives, married a Cheyenne girl who bore his son, Tom. Then she was killed. My uncle died in an Indian raid while fleeing Fort Dearborn with the other settlers there. I had no one but my real father and stepmother in St. Louis. My father … was a pompous, arrogant man. There was no warmth and love at home. I suppose he loved me in his own way, but I’ll always hate him for what he did later to Caleb.”
She sipped some more tea. “Then Caleb left young Tom with the Cheyenne and came to look for me in St. Louis. We were both older, and the moment I opened the door and saw him standing there—” She smiled. “He was so beautiful. We both felt it right away. We weren’t children anymore. We were in love. In a way, I think we always were. We were just too young before to realize it. When he came to St. Louis I was seventeen and he was twenty.”
She looked at Mrs. Handel, who appeared fascinated with the story. “To make a long story short, father did not approve of Caleb. He always felt my uncle, Tom, had ‘stolen’ my mother from him, and Caleb was a lot like Tom—rugged, a man of the mountains, someone my father claimed could never support me properly—all the things he hated about his brother Tom. Father wanted me to marry Byron Clawson, a young man I detested. But Byron had a future, or so my father thought. He was wealthy, and to my father that meant everything.”
She set her teacup aside. “Caleb and I ran away together.” She reddened slightly. “We were young, and so much in love. We decided not to wait until we could find a preacher to marry us.” She glanced at Mrs. Handel shyly. “At any rate, in our hearts we were already married. But then I got sick, very sick. Caleb was afraid I was dying. So he took me back to St. Louis to find a doctor who could help me. The doctor told Caleb I was dead, but I had a strange sleeping sickness that only made me appear to be dead. Everything happened so fast. The doctor secretly sent a messenger for my father. He and some other men, including Byron Clawson, came after Caleb. Caleb thought I was dead, and he had no choice but to run. They would have hung him, and he had to get back to his son, who was still with the Cheyenne. Then his horse stumbled and fell on him. Caleb was unable to go on. The men caught up with him and Byron—” The name was still bitter in her mouth. “He shot Caleb in the back,” she almost hissed. “I didn’t know until years later that it was Byron who had done it. I didn’t even know Caleb had been shot at all. They told me he was killed when the horse fell on him. My father was so apologetic, told me he would have let me stay with Caleb. But I didn’t believe that and never forgave him, although I didn’t imagine he had actually let Caleb be killed. Even worse, Father had Caleb dumped off on river pirates and paid them to get rid of the body.” Sarah shifted in her bed, saddened anew by her memories.
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