Chasing the Sun

by Tracie Peterson

  “I see no reason to continue this conversation. I need to check on the people.”

  “I just did that before coming to see you,” William answered. “What you need is to face the truth. You are headstrong, Miss Dandridge. Headstrong and dangerous—not only to yourself, but to others.”

  With that he left her, stalking off toward the far end of camp. Hannah watched him, unable to turn away. Why was it that his comments should so thoroughly offend and wound her? It wasn’t like she cared what Mr. Barnett thought. He was nothing to her—he’d said as much to the lieutenant.

  But it did bother her. It bothered her a great deal.

  Not knowing what else to do, Hannah returned to the chief’s tepee. She hoped she might be able to continue her discussion about God with Night Bear, but she found him sleeping. She sighed. Perhaps she had planted the seeds of the gospel deep enough that they would take root and grow. She smiled at the sleeping warrior. Not really a man, but certainly not a boy. She thought of Andy and tried to imagine him trekking out across vast distances to get help. The Comanche raised their children to be self-sufficient, whereas she had raised Andy and Marty to be dependent. Perhaps it was time to reconsider her manner of parenting. No doubt that would please Mr. Barnett. The frontier of Texas was a harsh land in which to raise children, but Hannah was willing to admit she could benefit from the advice of others. Just not from Mr. Barnett. His advice didn’t interest her at all.

  She clenched her fists and then forced herself to relax. There was no sense in allowing William Barnett to control her or make her feel bad for her choices. Her mother had always told her that the person who riled your anger was, in that moment, in control of your heart and mind.

  Hannah drew a deep breath and let it out very slowly. She would not allow Mr. Barnett to monopolize her thoughts. She would focus on God and what He desired of her. That was enough—that was the right way, as far as she could tell.

  16

  Two more days passed, bringing the death of several more Comanche, including Little Bird, Night Bear’s mother. When William carried the woman’s body from the tepee, Hannah couldn’t help but see how much it had upset Night Bear. She went to him and did her best to offer comfort.

  “I know how much this hurts, Night Bear. I lost my mother when I was fourteen. It was the saddest day of my life.”

  “She was a good mother,” he said, his voice husky with sorrow.

  “I prayed for her, as I have for all of your people,” she said. “I prayed that God was able to speak to her heart. He is not a cruel God. He is just and fair and desires that each and every person know of Him and His gift of life.”

  “But your God did not save her from dying.” Night Bear fought back tears. “If your God is all powerful, then why was He not strong enough to keep her from death?”

  Hannah brushed back the boy’s black hair. “Remember what I told you: We must all face a physical death at some point in our life. God saves us from a spiritual death. Our bodies will grow old—they will get sick or injured, and we cannot stop such things from happening. But if we trust in Jesus, then we never have to die a spiritual death.”

  “Have you prayed for me?” Night Bear asked.

  “I have. I’ve asked God to heal your body and give you strength to recover if it be His will. But I’ve also asked God to help you to understand who He is and to see that He is the one true God of all.” She stroked the boy’s fevered brow. “I believe God has plans for you, Night Bear. I believe you came into my life for the purpose of hearing of His love. Perhaps one day you will accept His gift of eternal life, and then you will help your people to trust Him, as well.”

  “My people are dead. So many are gone. . . . We will not be able to exist on our own and will have to join with another band in order to survive.”

  “Then they will become your people, true?”

  He nodded ever so slightly. “I think we might all pass from this earth if the white man has his way.”

  “Perhaps you will find a way for the white man and Indian to live together in peace,” Hannah said, encouraging the young man to think beyond the moment. “Perhaps one day we will live side by side.”

  The young warrior looked at her for a moment before shaking his head. “Your people will not let us live . . . in Comanche way.”

  “Maybe you could change. Maybe if you tried our way of living, you would find it a better way.”

  “What if our way is better?” he asked.

  Hannah frowned. She had lived several days in a Comanche camp and she could tell this boy that his way was not better. How could he possibly see it as better to sleep upon the ground in shelters comprised of nothing more than hides? How could he favor a life of wandering from one place to another—of killing and stealing? Then again, had she grown up with this way of life, might she not also believe it the best?

  She leaned back and stood. A thought came to mind. “We are always convinced that our way is the better way,” she said. “But only God’s way is perfect. If you seek Him, Night Bear, He will be found. And in finding Him, you will also learn the best ways to go.”

  A quick glance at He Who Walks in Darkness assured Hannah that he was resting as comfortably as possible. William’s meager ration of supplies had allowed Hannah to offer the chief comfort and some relief from the itching and pain, but now those supplies were gone.

  She longed to get word back to her family—it had been uppermost on her mind since she realized it would be impossible to just up and leave these very sick people. Seeking William, she left the tepee and wandered through the camp. Hannah spied him pouring water from a pot by the fire.

  “We need to send someone back to the house,” she said, coming alongside him. The warmth of the fire and sight of the steaming water made Hannah yearn for a bath. She had worked herself to a state of exhaustion over the last few days and was certain she was dirtier than she’d ever been. She reached inside her apron pocket and drew out a piece of cloth. Dipping it into the hot water, Hannah gingerly squeezed out the excess.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked when William said nothing.

  “I heard. I just don’t believe I have a solution. I’m not leaving you here, and I doubt that you want to go home just yet.”

  “It’s not a matter of want, Mr. Barnett.” She wiped her face with the cloth and felt slightly revived. “I believe my family and the others will worry about our welfare. I do not wish to grieve anyone. Therefore, I believe we should write a letter and perhaps we could get Red Dog or Running Buffalo to take it.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “Do you honestly think either of those Comanche are going to want to risk their lives in such a journey?” He stood, leaving the water beside the fire. “I think the fact is, we’ve done as much as we can here. It’s time to go home.”

  Hannah glanced around the camp. “How can you say we’ve done as much as we can? There are still many sick people. Those who are recovering are weak and cannot help those who are still so terribly ill.”

  “And you propose to remain here until everyone is back up and raiding? Is that it?”

  She grew angry at his condescending manner. “I propose that I remain here and help the sick. You can go wherever you like, but I’d prefer it be back to the ranch so that at least my family won’t worry about my safety.”

  William stepped closer. “Shouldn’t you have considered that before gallivanting off with a Comanche for parts unknown?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Will you take a message back to the ranch?”

  He shook his head. “I’m staying if you’re staying.”

  He was only inches away and Hannah couldn’t help but notice the small scar on the right side of his jaw. She found herself wondering why she hadn’t seen it before. What had caused it? It was only an inch or so long and rather faint. Perhaps it had happened when he was young and over the years time had faded the reminder.

  “Well?”

  Hannah realized with much embarrassment th
at she’d been staring at William’s face. Shaking off her thoughts, she turned to walk away. “I will ask Red Dog to take the message.”

  “And where will you get the paper and pen for such a message?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and kept walking. “I have a pencil and paper, Mr. Barnett. I’m not the complete idiot you believe me to be.”

  Herbert Lockhart rode to the Barnett Ranch fully intending to speak his mind. He had a folded letter in his pocket, which he had spent some time concocting. The letter told Hannah how in the event of his death, her father desired her to marry Lockhart. It also told of how under Texas law, Lockhart would be the one to inherit the ranch because he was a co-owner.

  He was rather proud of himself for the piece of work. The information given was worded exactly as he’d heard Dandridge speak. The man’s very presence could be determined in the comments about his children and their welfare.

  As for Martha and Andrew, it is my desire you would not be burdened with them for the duration of your life. I have allocated monies for them to be sent away to school, where they might receive a quality education and free you to enjoy your new life with Herbert Lockhart.

  Smiling as he remembered the words he’d written, Lockhart was more than a little pleased. This would no doubt compel Hannah to yield to his desires. It was all so very logical. He would tell Hannah that he had confirmed her father’s death and that because of this, he had opened her father’s last will and testament. In there, he’d found this letter that addressed his desires for the future.

  The ranch seemed unusually quiet when Lockhart arrived. Dismounting, he tied off the horse and bounded up the well-worn path to the front door. With a loud knock, Lockhart announced his presence.

  When no one answered, Lockhart knocked again. This time his impatience betrayed itself in the length of time he pounded the door with his fist. After another minute or so, Juanita came.

  “Señor Lockhart,” she said, sounding surprised.

  He smiled at the woman. She wasn’t a bad-looking sort for a Mexican. He rather liked the way her white peasant blouse seemed to make her brown skin all the more prominent. She was well kept and clean, unlike many of the poor Mexicans who continued to live in Texas. Once they might have owned the entire state, but not now. And their welfare had suffered.

  “I’ve come to see Miss Dandridge,” he explained.

  “She is not here, señor.”

  He frowned. He’d just ridden out on the only road to town, so he knew she wasn’t there. It was possible she’d gone visiting, but he happened to know she wasn’t very well acquainted with the folks at the neighboring ranches.

  “Where is she?” he finally asked.

  Juanita’s expression turned guarded. She looked to be hiding something as she focused on the ground. “She is with Mr. William.”

  Lockhart’s head began to throb as anger took control of his thoughts. “I see. And where have they gone?”

  “I cannot say,” she replied.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  Juanita looked confused. “If you come to the back, you can talk to Berto. He is sharpening knives.”

  Herbert followed the woman around the side of the house to the area they referred to as the summer kitchen. Here, Berto had put a grinding stone under the canvas canopy. He sat bent over the stone working to sharpen the edge of an axe.

  “Señor would like to know where Miss Hannah and Mr. Will go,” Juanita explained.

  “They are helping the sick,” Berto explained. He got up from his seat and put the axe aside.

  “What sick are you talking about?” Lockhart demanded.

  “The Comanche,” Berto answered. “They sent a rider to ask Miss Hannah to help them. They needed care.”

  Herbert barely held his rage in check. How dare this man tell him such an outrageous story. “You lie! Miss Dandridge would not go off to an Indian camp to help the sick. Where is she?”

  Berto looked puzzled and turned to Juanita. In rapid-fire Spanish the two dialogued for a moment. Herbert was more than a little annoyed. He couldn’t speak the language and hadn’t any idea what was transpiring between the husband and wife.

  Finally Berto turned back to him. “Juanita say that Miss Hannah wanted to help them. Night Bear—the chief’s son who she cared for here—he come to her and beg for help. Miss Hannah—she go. When William find out, he go after her.”

  “When was this?” Herbert asked, finally allowing for the possibility that the Mexican was telling the truth.

  “Six days now.”

  “Six days?” Herbert questioned in disbelief. “She’s been gone for nearly a week and you didn’t send for me? Where is this Indian camp?”

  “I don’t know. William—he think they camp in the Tierra del Diablo.”

  Lockhart was familiar with the phrase but not the area. He seethed to imagine Hannah being used by the Comanche or William Barnett. She would have no defense—no ability to keep them from doing to her whatever they wished. Chances were better than not she’d be no use to him at all when they were through with her.

  The sound of a rider approaching caused all three to turn. Coming down the gentle slope of the hill, a single Comanche warrior was waving something in the air. Juanita moved closer to Berto, but Herbert reached for his gun.

  It was only a derringer, not powerful enough to shoot from this distance, but he would put a bullet between the eyes of that dirty savage as soon as he came close enough. Berto turned and saw the gun. He put his hand over the weapon.

  “No, señor. He come in peace. He is alone.”

  “I don’t care,” Lockhart said, trying to pull the gun away from Berto’s grip.

  Berto held fast. “Señor, he may bring word from Miss Hannah. Let me go to him, and I will see what he say.”

  Lockhart drew in a deep breath. The Comanche had halted his horse just beyond the main yard. “Very well, but if he kills you, that will be the price you pay.”

  Juanita threw her husband a worried glance, but said nothing as he walked out to meet the Comanche. The two exchanged greetings with raised hands and then the Comanche handed Berto the very thing he’d been waving. Without waiting for Berto to reply, the brave kicked his horse into action as he wrenched the animal’s neck hard to the left. In a flash, the pony and rider climbed over the hill and were gone. Berto opened what looked to be a letter and studied it for a moment before heading back to his wife and Lockhart.

  Lockhart put away his gun and held out his hand. “What did he give you? Hand it over.”

  Berto put a letter in Lockhart’s hand. “He say this is from Miss Hannah.”

  “It’s probably some sort of ransom demand,” he said, opening the folded paper. Scanning the note quickly, Lockhart could hardly believe what he read. The Comanche were suffering from smallpox. Hannah was helping the Indians and intended to stay on until they were on the mend. William Barnett was there assisting her and they were both well. She wanted to let the family know so they wouldn’t worry should the two of them be absent for some time.

  “What does it say?” Berto asked. “I cannot read English.”

  Herbert shook his head and threw the letter to the ground. “Maybe you should learn.”

  He stormed out across the yard and rounded the house as Andy Dandridge came out the front door. “Hey there, Mr. Lockhart. What are you doing here?”

  “Apparently wasting my time,” Lockhart replied in a clipped tone. He grabbed the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle. His anger kept him from saying another word. Instead, Lockhart kicked the side of his mount and raced back down the road. He would deal with this matter in the only way those savages could understand. He knew where the local militia was and how he could garner their help. Those Comanche would rue the day they put his plans in jeopardy.

  17

  By Hannah’s best guess it had to be nearing December. She had spent at least two weeks in the Comanche camp if her figures were correct. It was easy to lose track of tim
e since her focus had been on the sick. William had worked nonstop to bury the dead with Red Dog and Running Buffalo and a few of the others who had recovered from their sickness.

  Tradition normally would have dictated more ceremony, but they did well to create a plot for each body on the west side of the village, despite the rocky ground. Hannah was most grateful. The stench of death lessened considerably as the bodies were cared for, and she couldn’t help but believe this would help the overall health of the camp.

  For days Hannah had watched the burial process with a strange interest. The Comanche tradition was to bring a person’s knees to their chest, arms on either side of the chest and head bent forward. There was generally a pit where the body was laid along with their weapons. The latter were broken first, Night Bear said, to indicate that the warrior’s fighting days were done. However, He Who Walks in Darkness had told Hannah that he intended to go on warring in the afterlife, so it seemed beliefs were varied.

  Generally a warrior’s saddle and other belongings were buried with him, as well, so that he would have plenty of things for his life beyond this world. The Comanche fearlessly confronted the living, but the thought of spirits returning to wreak havoc due to improper burial was terrifying. Once again, superstition had a stronghold over the people.

  It hadn’t been easy to dig plots big enough for the bodies, much less all of the accompanying properties, but Mr. Barnett had been intent to see it done as best he could. Hannah was grateful that William was willing to help with this duty. She did what she could to prepare the body prior to its burial, but her time was needed with those still living.

  The sounds and smells of life in a Comanche camp permeated even her dreams, though she longed for home and her brother and sister. But even so, Hannah had the strangest peace that she was doing exactly what God wanted her to do. Away from the responsibilities of the ranch, with nothing but time and isolation, she’d thought a great deal about who she had become while living on the Texas frontier. The girl she’d been back in Vicksburg would never have taken on such an endeavor. That girl was forever gone.