Destiny's Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  “But . . . the ranch . . . the horses and chores—”

  “Jess and James are handling things just fine. And John rode a full-grown horse earlier today. I would have told you when it first happened, but you were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  The tears came again and she closed her eyes. “Oh, Caleb, the trip and all our plans—”

  He leaned down and kissed her tears. “That’s not as important as your being well. That’s what the trip is for in the first place, you know—to get you to a better climate.”

  “But Tom—”

  “The war with Mexico is over. It’s been several months since we got his letter. Maybe things have calmed down now.” He had to think positive thoughts. He couldn’t bear to think of the possibility that his son had been a part of The Bad Ones, that he might have even been caught and hung by now. And what had happened to the poor young girl called Juanita? The answers would have to wait. His Sarah was sick. She needed him close by, needed the strength only Caleb could give her.

  “I’m going outside for a smoke.” He tucked the blankets around her neck. “You rest. And you get well, or I’ll be very angry with you.”

  She met his beautiful blue eyes with her green ones, the whites of her eyes red from fever. “I love you . . . so much, Caleb,” she whispered. “We’ll go next year, I promise.”

  He leaned close and kissed her eyes. “I love you, too.”

  She took a deep breath, her chest rattling with phlegm. “You should be sleeping. Now I’ve made you lose your rest.”

  “Stop worrying about me. You know how I am. I have sleepless nights whether you’re sick or not. And Lord knows I can manage without a full night’s sleep. I’ve done it many times.”

  He got up and turned the lamp dimmer, then picked up his pants from the foot of the bed and walked as quietly as possible across the wide planks of the cabin floor. He pulled on the pants and took a buckskin shirt from a hook on the wall and put it on, then pulled on his wolfskin jacket. He checked the pocket to be sure his pipe and tobacco were in it, then walked outside.

  The night was cold but clear. The late snow lay in a hard crust now, and Caleb guessed that in Colorado’s dry climate the snow would be gone by the end of the next day. He stuffed and lit his pipe, then stepped down off the porch, looking up at the wide heavens and at what seemed billions of stars. He thought how as a youth, while living with the Cheyenne, his Indian relatives read those stars, saw signs in them, and used them to determine what to do.

  He drew on the pipe and sat down on the steps of the porch.

  “Pa?”

  Caleb turned with a start. “James! What are you doing up?”

  “I heard Mother coughing.”

  Again Caleb could see the accusations in the boy’s eyes. Everything that happened to his white mother he blamed on his Indian father.

  “She’s got a fever.” Caleb turned back. “I intend to stay awake until the fever breaks.”

  James wrapped his jacket closer around himself and stepped closer. “We won’t be going to California then, will we? Mother will never be better in time.”

  Caleb took the pipe from his mouth, resting his elbows on his knees. “No, I don’t expect we’ll go. Maybe next year.”

  James swallowed. “Pa, I . . . I don’t want to go there. I want to go east, maybe go to a higher school, learn city ways and all, get a good education and a job someplace different.”

  The boy waited, his heart pounding with dread that his father would insist he go to California. Several long, silent seconds passed.

  “Have you told your mother?” Caleb finally asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, wait until she’s well. It won’t set easy with her. It will be hard enough leaving Cale behind.”

  “You’ll have Lynda and Jess with you, and John and Jessica. And once you get out there you’ll probably find Tom. You’re always happier when you’re with Tom.”

  Caleb frowned, turning to look at the boy, sitting sideways to get a better look at him. “You’ve always thought I favored Tom and Cale over you, haven’t you?”

  James swallowed again. He wanted so much to please this man, and at the same time he hated him for being Indian. Why did his love for his father come out all wrong? What made him hold it back? “It’s all right. Everybody probably has somebody that’s special, even though they love everybody in the family.”

  Caleb held his eyes. “It isn’t that way, James. You’ve convinced yourself of that, and I stopped trying a long time ago to make you understand that it isn’t that way at all.” He studied his son, who had shot up in height the past summer and winter and was close to fifteen now but looked much older. “Maybe it’s best that you do go east. As much as I love you, James, there is something invisible between us—something that maybe only being apart can heal. If it’s something I’ve done, I’m damn sorry.”

  The boy shook his head, swallowing back tears. “No, Pa. You didn’t really do anything.”

  Caleb rose, looking down at his son. “Except be Indian. Right?”

  James turned away. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, too, Pa.”

  Caleb put a hand on James’s shoulder. “You go east, James, if that’s what you want. I have some money saved to help you get started, but you’ll have to find work to keep going on your own. I hear there are all kinds of jobs there for a young man who wants to work. And that’s something you’ve never shunned. You’ve helped me, and God knows you suffered things in Texas that maybe you’ll never get over. Maybe getting away from it all will help. I’ll always love you just the same.”

  The boy only sniffed and quickly wiped at this eyes. “I have to go, Pa. It’s just something I feel as if I have to do.”

  “I know. Just give your mother more time. Wait until next spring.”

  “I thought . . . maybe later this summer I’d leave. If I wait till next spring, it would be too many good-byes for Mother.”

  “You’ll be only fifteen, James.”

  The boy shrugged. “Lots of boys my age strike out on their own. Jess was alone at thirteen. And you went west at sixteen and joined up with the Cheyenne. Cale’s already with the Indians where he wants to be. Why can’t I go east?” He turned and faced the man. “I can read and spell and do figures real good. I bet I could get a good job easy back there, and I could go to school on the side.”

  His eyes lit up with excitement. Caleb could tell even in the dim moonlight. James had not been happy ever since leaving Texas. It tore at his heart to think of the boy’s leaving, but to try to keep him would make him just as unhappy as it would have made Cale if he had been forced to stay. They were young men biting at the bit to strike out on their own—find their own way. In this land children grew up very fast.

  Caleb sighed. “All right. But you had better let me break your mother in on this one first. And wait until she’s completely well. And you write us as soon as you can so we will know where to write and let you know when we get to California and we can keep in touch.”

  James smiled sadly. “Thanks, Pa.”

  Caleb studied him intently. “Your mother came to me in Texas by choice, James. She gave up a lot because she loved me. And the love we found together again produced you. That makes you very speical to us. No matter what you think of your Indian blood, you remember that your own mother, who has no Indian blood at all, is proud that blood runs in her son’s and daughter’s veins. But it has always bothered you. I hope to God you find out what you want out of life. Whatever it is, it isn’t here. But then someday maybe you’ll find out it is here after all. Sooner or later a man goes back to his roots, James. You think about that.”

  The boy looked away from him. “I . . . I will, Pa.” He turned to go inside.

  “James.”

  The boy turned.

  “You’re a Sax. But that’s the name my adoptive white father gave me. Before that my name was Blue Hawk—still is. And you are the son of Blue Hawk. Remember it. Don�
�t dishonor it.”

  Their eyes held a moment before the boy turned and went back inside.

  Caleb stared at the door, tears welling in his eyes.

  “Something does not smell right about this one,” Tom said quietly. He crouched in the rocks above the camped circle of wagons, another supply train from the East. Tom turned to Rico. “They have not even posted any guards, it is as if they want to be attacked.”

  Rico shook his head. “We have not been raiding in this area for a long time. They just think no one will come, that is all.”

  Tom looked back down at the wagons, his dark, fiery eyes looking almost evil staring out from the heavily painted face. This time even his chest and arms were painted. He wore no shirt, just buckskin pants and moccasins, and a heavy belt of ammunition for his repeating rifle and pistol.

  “It’s a trick, I tell you. Father Juarez told me the Americans have come together and held meetings, trying to figure out how to catch us.”

  Jesus Vasquez crouched on the other side of Tom and waved him off. “You are letting the father get to you, my friend. I agree with Rico. I say we attack, burn those supplies after we kill the drivers, and take what we need.

  They moved stealthily back to their own circle of men, and Tom looked at each one of them as he spoke.

  “I think the wagons below are a trap. Rico and Jesus disagree. It is up to all of you whether we go in. We will take a vote. If we are going in, it must be soon, before it is too dark to see all of them. My vote is no.”

  They all looked at each other, then gave their votes, beginning with Rico. “I say yes.”

  “Yes for me,” Jesus put in.

  “Yes,” said the next man.

  Four more yes’s outvoted Tom. He raised his rifle. “We go then,” he said quietly. “Get mounted. Hit hard and fast, as we always do. There are only six wagons and only ten men. Jesus, Rico, and I will wait on this side. You others use the rocks for shelter and move around the other side. Give the call when you are ready and we will go in.”

  The others nodded, moving off at a quiet walk and leading their horses by the reins, careful to avoid the sound of thundering hooves and not to stir a lot of dust. Tom crouched with his friends and waited.

  “I think she will change her mind,” Jesus said in a near whisper as they crouched beside their mounts.

  Tom looked at him. “Who?”

  “Juanita Galvez. You go back, Tom. Give her a little time and go back.”

  Tom turned his eyes back to the edge of the rise over which they would ride any moment and attack the supply train. “I do not think so. They destroyed her, and I shall destroy them.”

  Jesus sighed. “We must stop, Tom. We cannot go on this way forever. We have seen much revenge. I am tired. I want to find a woman, settle down.”

  Tom looked at him in surprise. They were good friends now, all of them, especially Tom, Rico, and Jesus. Tom felt the pain of losing even his friends, yet he could not blame them. None of them had the intense need for vengeance that ate at his own heart.

  “I cannot truly blame you.” Tom sighed deeply, looking at Rico. “And what do you wish to do?”

  Rico shrugged. “I am homeless. But I, too, am tired of the fighting. It gets us nowhere as far as getting rid of the Americans. More and more of them come. It cannot be stopped, Tom. It is done.”

  Tom’s eyes teared and he faced forward again, finding it difficult to look either one of them straight in the eye. He loved them like brothers. “That much is true. Both of you should do what is in your heart to do. For myself, I must continue, even if I continue alone. My father did the same thing once—made war against the Crow all alone. I will do the same, and now that I cannot have Juanita, I pray that someday I will die fighting for her honor.” He swallowed. “After today both of you are free to do what you wish, as are the others. Take what you need from this wagon train—money, supplies, whatever. Use it to get yourselves settled again.”

  The whistle came, sounding only like a bird to the men below. Tom whistled back. “Let’s go!”

  They quickly mounted up and kicked their horses into a full gallop, as did the rest of the men from the other side. The men sitting around the campfire in the circle of wagons looked up in surprise and scrambled for their guns, but already three of them were down. It seemed to Tom this would be as easy as other attacks had been, but suddenly the canvas over three of the wagons was flung back, and several men with rifles raised up and began firing from each wagon, aiming in both directions.

  Tom’s eyes widened in horror as Rico and Jesus both screamed and went down, Rico flying from his mount, Jesus and his horse both going down in a tumbling, dusty heap, the horse whinnying and screaming, its nostrils flaring and its eyes wide with pain.

  “A trap! It’s a trap,” Tom yelled to those on the other side. But two of them had already fallen. There was no time to guess how many men there were in the wagons, perhaps five or six in each, and they knew how to shoot. These were not mere settlers and wagon drivers. They were trained men.

  So many shots were being fired, the sound was like a constant roar. Horses reared and dust rolled. Pain suddenly ripped through Tom’s left thigh, and his horse reared and stumbled sideways.

  “It’s him! It’s their leader,” someone shouted.

  “Get the bastard! We’ll hang him!”

  Tom took a quick look at Rico and Jesus, who both looked dead. Bullets whizzed by him as his horse circled frantically. He thought about riding straight in, letting them fill him with their bullets, but suddenly Juanita’s face was as clear to him as if she were standing before him. It was all he could see amid the volley of shots and shouting.

  From then on everything happened as though he were dreaming all of it. He turned his mount, unsure if the animal was also wounded. He ducked to the side, amazed that at the moment he actually felt no pain in his leg after the initial hit. He headed his horse up the rise and over it. Whether by luck or a miracle of God, he felt no bullets in his back, and his horse was still on all fours.

  Juanita! He only knew he had to get to Juanita and the safety of the mission. He wanted to die, and yet something would not let him deliberately end it all right then and there. It would have been so easy. He remembered men shouting to saddle horses, cursing that they were not prepared to give chase. That was good. That gave him a little time. He rode hard, oblivious to the gaping wound in his left thigh, or the fact that the bone was shattered and he was bleeding dangerously. In his dazed state he still somehow thought clearly enough to realize he would have to find shelter quickly and tie off the wound before riding to the mission. Otherwise he would leave a trail of blood.

  He headed for a nearby river. He would ride through it for a ways so that he left no tracks or blood. His horse splashed into it, and the cool water felt good against his wound. He reached down and splashed water onto his face. Somehow later he must find a way to wash off the paint.

  Behind him men were ready to go after him, and his friends lay dead, all but Rico, who still had some life in him.

  Juanita lit another candle. Every day she had lit a new one for him, praying for his safety. After Father Juarez had told her the shocking news of Tom’s activities, she also prayed he would stop before it was too late. The nuns sang their nightly prayers. How she wished Tom could find this kind of peace. And how she regretted having to turn him away. But that could not change.

  She knelt and prayed, running through her rosary beads faithfully. Everything was gone—done. This was all she had now. She would not see Tom Sax again, never be the woman she once dreamed of being. All that she owned was gone, except for the money Tom had salvaged for her after attacking the men at her father’s home. She prayed again for her father, prayed that God would welcome him into heaven, and she lit yet another candle for him.

  She prayed for an hour, as she did every evening before going to bed.

  “Juanita!”

  The voice of Father Juarez interrupted her prayers, and she turne
d in surprise at the plump man as he hurried down the aisle of the sanctuary, looking alarmed. He came close, trying to keep his voice down.

  “Come quickly! Tom is here, and he is badly wounded.”

  Her eyes widened and she quickly rose. “How badly is he hurt?”

  The man shook his head. “He has lost much blood. It is his leg. I do not know how long it has been since he was wounded, but the wound is already badly infected. He is asking for you. Some of the sisters and I managed to get him to a bed.” He put a hand to her waist and led her down the aisle. “Hurry!”

  She walked with him, her heart racing with fear. Tom! The worst had happened, but at least he had come to the mission for help. What if he died? Or what if he lost his leg? How could she forgive herself?

  “Father, what if men come after him?”

  “He arrived alone. I saw no one chasing behind. The sisters have removed everything from the horse and taken it far away and set it loose. No one outside this mission will even know he is here. We will have to treat him ourselves. We cannot even take the risk of getting a doctor. Some of us have treated wounds before. We will do our best. It will help for you to be with him.”

  He hurried her into a room at the back of the church. Before they even entered it she could hear Tom crying out her name, groaning with pain. She hurried inside with Father Juarez, then gasped at the sight of him. He was already stripped naked, his face, chest, and arms smeared with paint and dirt, as though he had clumsily tried to wash it off but did not succeed. He was so dirty and bloody that she was hardly aware of his nakedness. His chest heaved in great gasps of pain and desperation as the sisters worked quickly to wash him and prepare to treat the hideous wound.

  At first Juanita stood frozen. Toms’ left thigh was grotesquely swollen, dried blood mixed with a yellow-green discharge around a gaping wound making her feel ill.

  “We might have to remove the leg, Father,” one of the sisters spoke up.