Sarah heard guns outside being fired into the air. She jumped and held James closer as he began to cry. She suddenly wanted only to be home on the ranch, Caleb lying beside her in bed. Where was Caleb? Was he alive? What had happened to make her wake up with that terrible sense of dread? And all the ruckus out in the street only made things seem worse, for Texas was bursting at the seams. Stephen Austin had been arrested, people were angry, and her own husband was somewhere fighting Comanche because the Mexicans had not provided enough protection for the American settlers. All her life she had felt her destiny decided by events she could not control. It was happening again. She could only pray it would not mean losing her Caleb.
She suddenly didn’t care about material for her dresses. She wished she had never come to town at all. She wanted to get back to the peaceful Handel ranch, to get back to poor Lynda, who was convinced something awful had happened. More guns fired. It seemed everyone wanted Texas—the Mexicans, the Americans, the Comanche, and the Apache. Where would it all end, and where would she and Caleb and their family be when the questions were resolved?
“I hope things are more peaceful when we meet again.” she told Emily, holding James closer to her breast.
Mildred Handel returned and Sarah stumbled through introductions, her mind and heart full of Caleb. It was as though the gunfire had brought it all into focus. Lynda was right. Something terrible had happened. And now Emily Stoner had appeared out of nowhere, someone from a past both Caleb and Sarah would rather forget. It was all strangely foreboding.
They rode hard, all through the night and into late morning, until the horses could no longer keep going. Tom could see his father was pushing both men and animals beyond their limit, as if he were being chased by something terrible. Caleb rode ahead and said nothing, looking back only occasionally to make sure John was all right.
John forced himself to keep up in spite of the fact he had been starved and abused for a few days before being rescued. He knew they had to keep going, to get as far away from the Comanche as possible. One had to be practical in this land. How many times had his father told him that? He knew there was no time even for mourning Lee. That would come later.
Finally, close to noon, heat and exhaustion won out. Caleb headed for a grove of cottonwoods and halted the horses. He dismounted, turning eyes that were shockingly hollow and wild to his sons. He walked over to John, lifting him down and hugging him tightly. Caleb’s shoulders shook as he walked under the tree with John in his arms. Tom realized his father was crying.
Tom had no idea what to say to the man. He was suffering his own grief. Lee had been a brother, a best friend, practically Tom’s only friend all his life.
Tom’s mind raced with questions. What had happened to Lee? Why was his father acting so strangely? He watched as Caleb set John on his feet, then turned away and headed quickly for a huge pile of boulders not far away. He disappeared behind them.
Tom frowned, looking at John, who was wiping at his eyes. He walked up to his young half-brother. This was the first chance they’d had to talk, and Tom needed to know. “What the hell happened back there,” he asked John.
“An Indian woman … she surprised Uncle Lee,” the boy answered, sniffing and wiping at a dirty face. He shook with weariness and renewed horror. “She stabbed him with a lance before Pa could get to her. If Uncle Lee … would have turned sooner,” he sniffed, “he’d have seen the woman. But he was … watching Pa kill those other Indians. Pa just … sliced their throats. I never … saw him like that. He … killed that woman, too. But Uncle Lee … he was too badly hurt already. I guess Pa couldn’t bring him … ’cause he’d be too heavy to try to carry off with us.”
Tom heard choking sounds coming from behind the rocks. “Stay here,” he told John. “Get some rest. And give the horses a little water from our canteens.” He hesitated a moment, then walked toward the rocks, where he found his father not just weeping, but sick to his stomach. Never in his life had he seen Caleb Sax like this.
“Father, what is it? Let me help you.”
Caleb straightened from a kneeling position. He poured some water from the canteen he’d brought with him into the palm of his hand and splashed it on his face, then drank a little and spit it out to wash his mouth. He took a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his buckskin shirt, wet it, and began wiping the white paint from his face. He remained silent, turned away form Tom. Tom walked closer, kneeling down and putting a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Father? Are you wounded or something?”
Caleb shook his head. “No.” He blew his nose, then sat down against one of the boulders, closing his eyes and breathing in a deep shudder. “I killed him, Tom,” he said quietly. “I killed Lee so the Comanche wouldn’t get hold of him and torture him before he died. I killed him.” His voice choked again. “What the hell … am I going to tell Lynda? I don’t even have … a body to bring home.”
Tom felt a great lump in his throat. He sat down beside his father, rubbing at his eyes. What a horror for Caleb Sax! Lee had been like a son. Tom breathed deeply to keep from weeping himself. For the moment he had to be strong. Life was going to be very lonely and different without Lee, and the loss was beginning to bore into Tom like a bullet. He knew that, for a while, it would get worse before it got better.
“You will just have to tell her the truth,” Tom answered.
“No. I don’t want her to know it all. That woman … stabbed him right between the legs … and in the chest. He couldn’t have lived, and even if he did …” He jerked in a sob, rubbing a hand over his face. “My God.” He breathed deeply for control. “He begged me … to kill him … said not to try to take him … he’d never make it. So I … cradled him right in my arm … and slit his throat.” He looked down at his clothes, covered with dried blood, Lee’s blood. He shook his head, as though bewildered.
“We can tell Lynda he died right away from the Comanche woman’s wounds. We’ll say the blood on your clothes is from the Comanche warriors you killed. We couldn’t bring Lee’s body because he was too heavy and we had to get out of there fast. Does John know what you did?”
“No. He saw Lee stabbed. I’m sure he thinks that’s how he died.”
“Then don’t ever tell him otherwise. We’ll explain how hard it would be on Lynda to know he suffered. He’ll understand we have to convince her he died right away. It’s the most comfort we can give her.” He swallowed before continuing, finding it very difficult not to break down. “I hope she doesn’t lose the baby over this. It will be very important to her to have the baby. It will help her get over Lee—having his child.”
Caleb nodded, then leaned forward and got on his knees again, retching violently. He had never experienced anything like this before. He’d been through a lot of things, killed a lot of men, warred against the Crow, fought in the Battle of New Orleans, struggled to protect his land, lost many loved ones. But never had he taken his own knife to someone dear to him, let alone the fact that Lee Whitestone was one of the finest young men he knew. How would he ever forget this? Surely he had done the right thing—but Lee! Lynda’s husband! Marie’s brother. Marie. She would understand. Surely she knew right now, and they were together in spirit—Lee and Marie. Yes. He had to think of it that way. He would go home and spill it all out to Sarah. She would understand, too. Only Sarah and Tom would know.
His stomach finally settled and he washed his face and mouth again. He turned to Tom, his first son, the young man who had given him reason to live so many years ago. Tom understood. And surely he, too, was grieving. He had been close to Lee. Caleb reached out and they embraced.
“We’ll work it out, Father. You’ll see.”
“I tell myself … I should have let you go instead. Maybe you wouldn’t have hesitated. But then if it had been you …” He shook his head. “That’s what did it,” Caleb told him, pulling away again. “The damned softhearted Cherokee hesitated because it was a woman—”
A shot rang
out before Caleb could continue, and a piece of the boulder behind them exploded into tiny stones.
“Pa,” a startled John shouted from the grove of trees nearby.
Caleb and Tom ducked, hunching down as they made their way back to the trees, where John was hitting at a Comanche warrior with a stick. The warrior was trying to take the horses. Caleb made a growling noise, landing into the man and knocking him to the ground. Tom whisked his musket from its boot on his horse and whirled, quickly firing at two more warriors coming down from the boulders right behind them.
One of them screamed out and fell, while Caleb wrestled on the ground with the first man and John scurried to Lee’s horse, taking a musket from that one. Tom ducked and rolled as the third warrior came at him with a tomahawk before Tom could reload. The warrior missed. Tom scrambled back up to face him and swung his musket hard, smashing it into the side of the warrior’s face. The Comanche went down under the bone-crunching blow, while three more warriors came down from the rocks.
John took careful aim with Lee’s musket and shot one of the oncoming Comanche, while Caleb rammed his knife into his opponent’s chest and quickly got up. Caleb pulled his handgun and fired, killing another attacker, while the last man screamed out and lunged for Tom. Caleb wanted to fire but was afraid of hitting Tom. He shoved the gun into its holster and dived into the man, pushing him off Tom. The tomahawk the warrior wielded landed into Caleb’s shoulder, more by accident than a deliberate effort. Tom struggled to his feet and retrieved his own pistol from his horse, but it was not necessary. Caleb was already stabbing the warrior. Tom realized the man was already dead, but in Caleb’s grief and fury he could not stop. Over and over again he landed the knife into the Comanche man, his shoulder bleeding badly, until Tom came up from behind and grasped his arm, pulling it back.’
“Father, stop! He’s dead.”
Caleb hesitated, staring at the man as though he just then realized what he’d been doing. He dropped his knife and moved wearily off the bloody warrior, panting, forcing himself to his feet. “Were there … just the six of them?”
“It looks that way. We’d better get going again,” Tom answered. “The horses are about dead, but we have no choice. We are still too deep in Comanche country.”
Caleb nodded. He grasped his left arm with his right hand. The blood from his left shoulder was beginning to run down his arm.
“Let me pour some whiskey on that and wrap it, Father.”
“Later. Let’s get some distance on our heels first.”
“You will bleed badly.”
“I’ve bled before.” He turned to see John still standing with Lee’s musket in his hand, staring at the Comanche he had killed. John Sax was only twelve, and he had killed a man. His eyes were tearing when he finally moved them to look at his father.
“It feels funny,” he told Caleb.
Caleb walked closer to him, his own eyes full of vengeance. “You had every right to shoot him. Out here a man doesn’t have a choice, and I guess you’re as much man now as Tom here. Your first kill was for Lee. Remember that.”
Their eyes held, and John handed Caleb the rifle, then hugged him around the waist. “Don’t die, Pa. I don’t want anybody else to die.”
“I won’t die,” Caleb answered wearily, patting the boy’s head. “God knows I should have many times over. It should be me lying dead back there in that Comanche village, not Lee.” He sighed deeply. “Let’s get home. Sarah must be having a fit wondering what’s happened to us. We’ll find a place to hide out better and do most of our riding at night until we’re far enough out of Comanche country to make a dash for home.”
He looked at Tom, his eyes weary and full of sorrow. Tom knew his father was trying to decide how he was going to tell his daughter her husband was dead. Caleb stumbled to his horse then, his left arm beginning to feel weak and numb.
Chapter
Five
* * *
Sarah’s knuckles were red from scrubbing clothes on the rough washboard. Mildred Handel insisted she was not strong enough to help with the laundry, but Sarah was determined to do her share. She and Lynda had been with the Handels for nearly six weeks, and Sarah was beginning to feel like a burden, although Mildred seemed genuinely to enjoy the company of the women and the baby.
James lay in a cradle in the shade of the porch overhang, and Lynda was rocking him with her foot.
“Riders coming,” one of Handel’s men shouted.
Sarah straightened and wiped her hands on her apron. Every time she heard those words she prayed it was Caleb. She walked over to the porch, where Lynda had already risen to watch men approaching on horseback.
There were only three. Sarah’s chest tightened. She walked up beside Lynda and put an arm around the girl’s waist. The men came closer, and the women could see now that one of them was a young boy. The two men were tall and broad—Tom and Caleb.
“Mother,” Lynda whispered. “Where is Lee?”
Sarah just watched as Wil Handel rushed up to greet Caleb and Tom, carrying on with “Thank God’s” that they were all right. He reached up to take young John from his horse and hugged him.
Sarah gave Lynda a squeeze. “Lee must be all right,” she told the girl. “There will be some explanation.”
She let go of the girl and walked down the wooden steps of the porch, hurrying over to John and hugging him. This was not her son, but he was Caleb’s, and that was all she needed to know to love him as her own. She leaned back and touched his hair.
“Johnny, are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
He glanced at Lynda and swallowed, then looked back at his stepmother. “I’m okay.” He swallowed again. “But Lee’s dead,” he said quietly so that Lynda couldn’t hear.
Sarah paled and looked up at Caleb, who was still on his horse. She was shocked by his appearance: the hollowness to his eyes, the sudden aging of his face. The sleeve of his buckskin shirt was torn and covered with what looked like bloodstains.
“Caleb,” she groaned. She glanced at Tom.
“We had more than one run-in with the Comanche,” Tom explained. “Father was hurt, but he is healing.” His dark eyes moved to Lynda, who came stumbling off the porch, her eyes wide with dread.
Sarah turned to Wil Handel. “Take John inside, will you? Let him get cleaned up. And he’s probably hungry.”
“Of course, Mrs. Sax.” He shook his head. “I am so sorry.”
Sarah smoothed her hand through John’s dark hair again. “Go with Wil, John. Everything will be all right now. Thank God your father found you.” She blinked back tears as the boy walked toward the house. Tom was dismounting, but Caleb seemed frozen in place. He was watching Lynda, who just stared back at him with her father’s same blue eyes.
“Lee’s dead,” Lynda finally said. It was not a question. She knew. Tom moved up beside her, taking her arm.
“He died quickly,” he told his sister.
She turned her eyes to Tom. “Where is he? Where is his body?”
Tom glanced at Caleb, who closed his eyes and turned away. Tom sighed and kept hold of Lynda’s arm. “We had to leave him. We had to get out and get out fast, Lynda, or they would have killed us all. We never would have got away.”
He felt her beginning to shake violently. “No … body? I … can’t even bury him here, where I can be close to him.”
“We’re so sorry, Lynda. You know we would never have left him if there had been any choice. He was like a brother to me, and a son to Caleb. It’s bad for us, too. I grew up with Lee.” An aching lump rose in his throat. “We don’t need a body. What’s a body? It’s the spirit that matters, and Lee’s spirit will always be with us, alive in this place. Everywhere we look we will see his smile, hear him laughing. He wouldn’t want you to look at his dead body. He would want you to remember the Lee Whitestone who left here a few weeks ago.”
Lynda barely heard him. Lee! On his last night home they’d made love. His seed was rapidly growing in her wo
mb. This was unreal. Surely he would ride in behind the others any time. Lee was too strong and good to be dead. Not Lee! She needed him. She was going to have his baby. She felt her legs giving way and suddenly Tom was picking her up and carrying her to the house. Someone was screaming Lee’s name. Was that anguished sound coming from her own throat?
Caleb watched, his face stricken with alarming desolation. Sarah walked up to him, concerned about his wounds, but also concerned by the look in his eyes.
“It should have been me,” he groaned, when his eyes finally met hers.
Sarah reached up and touched his leg. “It shouldn’t have been anyone, Caleb. It just happened. There is hardly a settler in Texas who hasn’t suffered some kind of loss at the hands of the Comanche—or from the damned weather or outlaws or disease. It all comes with the country, Caleb, and you love this country. You found family here and have built a home here. These things happen. We both know that.”
He looked at her wearily. “You don’t understand.”
She frowned. “What don’t I understand? Caleb, please get down. Let me help you.”
He wearily dismounted, grimacing with lingering pain. He clung to his horse’s bridle and looked down at her. She looked good, thinner again, beautiful as always. But this homecoming was not the joyful event he had hoped for.
“You all right?” he asked. Even his voice sounded weary.
“I’m much stronger.”
“The baby?”
“Healthy. Beautiful. He’s nearly six weeks old, Caleb.”
He glanced at the cradle on the porch, then closed his eyes when he heard Lynda crying Lee’s name inside. He opened them to look down at Sarah then, swallowing before he spoke.
“I killed him myself,” he told her in a near whisper. “He was … badly wounded … dying. I had no choice, Sarah, I couldn’t … let the Comanche hurt him more.”
Their eyes held, and he watched the horror in hers. He knew she understood it had been a necessary thing but also understood what it had done to him.
Frontier Fires Page 8
