Chasing the Sun

by Tracie Peterson

  “I’m not entirely sure what is to be done. I can hardly turn you away in good conscience. If my father were here, it wouldn’t even be a matter for me to consider.”

  “When is your father expected home?” William tried to sound as though the answer were unimportant.

  “I can’t really say,” Hannah replied, her glance darting to the others. “He went to help my sick grandmother. I expected him home by now, and so I suppose the answer is that he’s due most anytime. However, that said, it doesn’t help us in this situation.”

  “Miss Hannah,” Juanita began, “Mr. Will is a good man. His family love God very much. He is no trouble to you.”

  William could see that Hannah was weighing Juanita’s words carefully. He pushed down his growing irritation that he even needed a defender. This was his home. He knew every inch of this house—every nook and rut on the property. He had worked by the sweat of his brow to build the place with his father and brother. Yet a young, albeit beautiful, woman was now the deciding factor in whether he stayed or had to leave again.

  Hannah drew a deep breath. “I can hardly turn you out tonight, Mr. Barnett. The risk is too great, and I won’t have your death on my conscience.”

  “He can sleep in my bed,” Andy offered.

  “Andrew, that wouldn’t be appropriate. We share the loft, and Marty and I can hardly stay in the same room with Mr. Barnett.”

  Andy seemed to consider this for a moment. “He can stay in Pa’s room with the Comanche.”

  “Sí, that might serve you well, Miss Hannah.” Berto looked to William before continuing. “He speaks Comanche and you’ll need someone on guard.”

  “You speak Comanche?” Hannah questioned.

  “Some. Enough,” William admitted.

  “I need time to think.” Hannah frowned and put her linen napkin aside.

  William wondered if she’d lost her appetite or if the idea of him under the same roof was so unpleasant she couldn’t stomach her supper. He watched as she excused herself from the table and exited the room. She was all grace and manners, but he could see that she was more than a little upset. Well, he was upset, too.

  Hannah went to the kitchen and leaned heavily against the counter. What was happening? Mr. Barnett had returned, and Father was still missing. She wondered if Mr. Lockhart might be of use but fretted over the idea of calling him to the ranch. If he knew Barnett was there, he might insist that Hannah leave. Or he might bring the law and cause problems for Mr. Barnett. Either way, Hannah didn’t like the choices.

  “Are you all right, Miss Hannah?” Juanita asked, joining her in the kitchen. She went immediately to the cupboard and retrieved three plates.

  “I don’t know what to think of all of this, Juanita. There’s a Comanche in Father’s bed, a stranger sitting at my dining table, and the ever-present threat of attack. Added to all of this, Father is missing and a war is going on. I’d say things cannot possibly get any worse.”

  “Miss Hannah, Mr. Will is a good man. You should not be afraid that he is here.” Juanita patted Hannah’s arm, then turned back to the counter.

  Hannah put her face in her hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  The thought of her future terrified Hannah. Perhaps if the war were over she could return to her grandmother’s house in Vicksburg. Surely with the gold under Father’s bed she would be able to get them back to Mississippi.

  She felt Juanita hug her close. The woman had such a kind and gentle nature. She never worried about the differences between them—the fact that she was paid to work on the ranch or that their skin was different colors and they spoke two different languages. Juanita simply saw a need and endeavored to meet it.

  “Miss Hannah, God will see you through.”

  Hannah lifted her face to meet the older woman’s dark eyes. “I want to believe that, Juanita. I do. I feel so weak though. I feel as if my faith is an ember about to go cold.”

  The woman nodded. “Sometimes it is hard. We must trust, even when . . . when very bad times come.”

  “This is the worst of times to be sure.” Hannah let out a heavy sigh and straightened. Squaring her shoulders, she looked beyond Juanita. “I suppose Mr. Barnett could stay in the bunkhouse with the other men. The men could take turns caring for the Indian.” She twisted her hands. “I don’t know rightly how to even pray about this.”

  “Ask God to show you,” Juanita suggested. “He will.”

  Hannah tried to put her mind at ease. “I will ask Him.”

  “Did you have trouble with the Comanche when you were a little boy?” Andy asked William.

  “I didn’t live here when I was a boy,” William told him. “I moved here when I was sixteen.”

  “I’m eight,” Andy declared. “That’s half of sixteen.”

  “Sounds like you’re one smart boy.”

  Andy beamed. “Hannah’s been teachin’ me since we moved away from town. She’s real smart.”

  “I can well imagine.” William didn’t want to focus their conversation on Hannah, however. He pointed to the checkerboard. “So you were teaching your sister to play. Are you any good?”

  “Pa says I am.” Andy sat down by the board. “You wanna play?”

  William figured it wouldn’t hurt anything and took a seat opposite the boy. The small table was perfect for a game. William wondered if it had been handcrafted for just such a thing in fact. He ran his hand over the smooth edges of the wood.

  “My pa brought this table with us when we moved from Mississippi. It’s his favorite.”

  “It’s a nice table,” William said, moving his checkers into place.

  “He had it when he was married to Hannah’s mama. She’s dead now. Then he got married to my mama.”

  “And she died when Marty was born, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t remember her.” He frowned and pushed back his hair. “Pa has a picture of her, but he took it with him to Vicksburg.”

  William felt his chest tighten. “Vicksburg?”

  Andy made his move then nodded. “That’s where we used to live when my mama died. I don’t remember living there, but my grandmother still lives there and Pa went to help her. She’s sick.”

  “I see.” William tried not to show any emotion. He pushed his checker into place and waited for Andy to move again.

  “My mama was real pretty.” Andy continued his play. “Where’s your ma?”

  “She died, too. She’s buried here on the ranch. Down by the river.”

  “I saw it.” Andy looked up, rather excited. “It’s covered with rocks and has a wooden cross. We put some flowers on it once.”

  William nodded, remembering the day he and his brother had dug the grave. His mother had succumbed to the grippe, and when she died William felt a part of him had died, as well. He’d only been eighteen, but he missed her more than he could say.

  “So did the Indians attack you?” Andy asked, jumping one of William’s pieces. He smiled and captured the prize. “I’m winning.”

  It was William’s turn to move and he managed to jump one of Andy’s checkers. “Not for long.”

  “Berto said the Comanche are angry. He said most of the Indians are angry.”

  “I suppose that’s right,” William replied. “The way I figure it though, we’d better all learn to get along. If we keep on fighting, we’ll kill each other off and then there won’t be anyone to take care of the land.”

  “Mr. Lockhart hates the Indians. He told my pa they weren’t good for anything. He thinks the soldiers should just kill them all.”

  “Some folks feel that way, but I don’t. I think we’re all God’s creatures and we need to work through our differences.”

  “But you went to war.”

  William didn’t really know how to explain his thinking to an eight-year-old. “I went because my father wanted me to go. Nothing more.”

  “So you won’t kill Indians?” Andy asked, momentarily forgetting the game.

&n
bsp; William grew thoughtful. “If I’m attacked, I will defend myself. But otherwise, I won’t seek to harm anyone. I prefer things being peaceable.”

  Andy nodded. “Me too. I don’t like to fight. Hannah says that God isn’t pleased when we hurt each other. I like it when folks get along. Pa said there’s a big war going on back where we used to live. He said hate is what stirred it up. I don’t like war.”

  Thoughts of battle flooded William with images of death and destruction. “I don’t, either,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “Mr. William, you come quick. That Indian is waking up!” Juanita called from the archway. “Hurry!”

  6

  The Comanche boy rallied and quickly faded out again. Throughout the night, William watched the boy and wondered when his people might come for him. He didn’t want to upset Miss Dandridge, but there was little doubt in William’s mind that the Comanche would track the boy back to the ranch. Of course, if the young man was of value to the band, they might be willing to barter for him. It wasn’t likely, but there was a chance nevertheless.

  Having been using his nights for travel and days for sleep, William didn’t find it all that hard to keep watch. He read a bit, but he felt more on guard than he had in his weeks of dodging soldiers and Indians. He knew Berto and Diego were most likely helping keep watch. They understood the likelihood of the Comanches’ return. William and Berto had discussed it in brief and they’d all agreed that given the recent threat, everyone would be better served to sleep under one roof.

  William had been glad that Miss Dandridge was the sensible sort. She didn’t argue with the suggestion at all. In fact she had taken Juanita and Pepita up to the loft with her and the children. He thought it remarkable that Miss Dandridge didn’t separate herself from the hired help. This was the second example he’d witnessed, and he couldn’t help but wonder how a young woman so clearly raised among educated, genteel Southern folk could act in such a manner.

  William looked at his pocket watch. The sun would be up soon. William wasn’t exactly sure what the plan should be. He’d thought by now the Indian boy would be awake—at least enough that he could converse with him and explain they meant him no harm. William had seen more bloodshed than he cared to remember during the war, and the last thing he wanted to witness was the murder of the Dandridge children or Berto’s family.

  He closed the watch and returned it to his pocket. The timepiece had been a gift from his mother and father on his eighteenth birthday. His mother had died not long after. For the first time in quite a while he allowed himself to remember her and the good days—the days when his mother had been alive and their family had been whole. He knew that in a situation like this, his ma would tell him to pray.

  Lucy Barnett could have given lessons in prayer to preachers. She prayed all the time and believed that God heard each and every petition. William had never been quite so confident. He believed in God and had asked Jesus into his heart when he was just a boy at his mama’s knee, but as he grew older trust came harder.

  Ma had said that was Satan’s way of trying to wiggle into a young Christian’s heart. Satan liked to attack before a fellow could make his faith strong enough to stand the tests of life. That was why God gave children God-fearing parents and other adults of Christian faith.

  “Those who have fought the good fight for longer in life are able to pray and encourage those who are weak,” she would tell him.

  Then she would touch his cheek and tell him that she was praying for God to strengthen him. Gazing across the small bedroom, William could imagine her standing there, as she might have been when he was a boy. She always made him feel loved and cared about, even when she was busy at her tasks.

  “God has a plan for your life, William.” Her words were laced with pride and assurance. “You may not know exactly what that entails,” she would say, “but you can rest in certainty that it will be honoring and pleasing to Him.”

  William shook his head and thought of the men he’d killed in battle. Was that honoring and pleasing to God? Where was God then?

  He leaned back against the wall and tried not to remember the horrors of war. It was nigh onto impossible, though. He could still smell death in his nostrils. Death, mingled with smoke, dirt, and gunpowder. He would never forget the cries of the wounded, the dying. Men who had only moments before been strong and healthy now groaned and pleaded for their mothers, their wives, their sweethearts. Some were just as glad for a complete stranger to take their hand and await death’s embrace.

  Would the memories never stop tormenting him? Would he ever be able to close his eyes and sleep the rest of the innocent?

  He saw movement in the bed and jumped up to find the Comanche boy had awaken. Choosing his words with great care, William spoke the boy’s language.

  “You are safe here,” he told him. “We mean you no harm.”

  The boy’s eyes darted around the room. “Why am I here?”

  “Your horse threw you. You landed in the wash—broke your arm and hit your head. You’ve been resting here all night.” William moved closer and the boy cowered. Pain was clearly etched in his expression.

  “I mean you no harm. My name is William Barnett. This is my ranch. What’s your name?”

  The young man watched William for a moment, then answered. “Tukani Wasápe.”

  “Night Bear,” William repeated in English.

  “My father is He Who Walks in Darkness,” the boy said, struggling to sit up. “He will come for me.”

  “I’m certain he will,” William replied. “However, we want no trouble with him or with the Numunuu.”

  “You do not call us Comanche?” Night Bear questioned.

  “I respect the People,” William said, calling them as they called themselves. “The People have been long in this land and I am not an enemy.”

  The boy’s upper lip curled slightly. “All white men are our enemy. You would see us all dead.”

  “You don’t even know me,” William said in his defense. “I do not wish you dead. Would I have brought you here and seen to your care if I wanted you dead?”

  Night Bear considered this for a moment. “You brought me here?”

  “Yes.” William watched the Comanche for a moment. “I was there when you were about to shoot the young boy.”

  “The white hair,” Night Bear said as if suddenly remembering. “His scalp would have been my first. It would have been a good omen.”

  “No, it would not. That child meant you no harm. When you fell from your horse, that boy came to your aid. He never knew you meant to take his life.”

  The door opened and Hannah looked inside. “Mr. Barnett, I thought . . .” She stopped in midsentence at the sight of the young Comanche awake.

  “This is Night Bear,” William said. He looked at the young man. “Do you speak English?”

  “I know the white man’s tongue,” Night Bear replied. “It is evil and full of lies.”

  “That it is,” Hannah said, seeming to forget her surprise. She came to the bed. “I’m Hannah Dandridge, Night Bear. You are a guest in my house. Are you hungry?”

  He looked confused for a moment and Hannah asked again, this time gesturing to imitate eating. “Would you like to eat?”

  “Haa—yes.”

  “Good. Then I will bring you something right away.” She looked at William. “Would you like something?”

  “Not just yet,” he told her.

  Night Bear watched as she exited the room then turned his attention back to William. “She is your woman?” he asked in Comanche.

  William shook his head. “Kee. No. It’s a long story, but let’s just say she is a guest—a friend.”

  Hannah soon returned and placed a tray with a sweet roll and milk in front of the boy. It wouldn’t be something the boy was used to eating, but perhaps he was the adventurous sort.

  “I’ll have some hot food in a little while,” she said, straightening.

  Night Bear considered th
e sweet roll for a moment. He poked at it with his finger then looked up. William explained as best he could in the boy’s language. This seemed to satisfy him. He picked the roll up and bit into it. The flavor apparently met with his approval, because he wolfed down the entire thing in only a few bites.

  “Goodness, you must be hungry. Should I get another one for you?”

  “Haa. I eat more,” Night Bear declared.

  Hannah smiled and William thought it the loveliest smile he’d seen in some time. “I will get you another.”

  Night Bear drank the milk and waited for her return. William couldn’t help but wonder if the boy’s father would appreciate the kindness they were showing Night Bear and in turn show mercy. If the warriors returned with a larger raiding party, there was little they could do to defend themselves for long.

  “Is your father an honorable man?” William asked in the boy’s tongue.

  “He is,” Night Bear replied. “He is most honorable. He is chief of our band. The Numunuu hold him in high regard. He is wise and just.”

  “Will he be just with us?” William asked. “We have shown you mercy and cared for you. We did not wish to see harm done to you. Will He Who Walks in Darkness honor our kindness and do us no harm?”

  The young warrior seemed to think on this for a moment. “My father hates the white man. He has lost many good people to the fighting. My grandfather and uncles are all dead because of the soldiers at the fort. My father would not agree to the treaties. He will not go to the reservation.”

  “I can understand his anger, but we are not soldiers and we mean you and your people no harm. My family has lived here for many years and has done so in peace. Even when the Numunuu and Kiowa were fighting the soldiers at the forts, we did not fight with them.”

  “How did you learn to speak our tongue?” Night Bear asked.

  “We once employed a young man who had been raised with the Comanche. He had been traded back to the whites and came to work for us after a time. He taught me your tongue.”

  Just then Hannah returned with not one, but two additional sweet rolls. “Here,” she said, smiling. “This should stave off your hunger for a while.”