Destiny's Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Caleb felt his heart tighten. “Does he have some kind of proof?”

  “No, not really, just that he talked to my friend Rico—the one who lived and was hung. He says Rico said the name Tom—and he knows I was once sweet on Juanita. Now I am married to her. He just . . . he put it all together. He—”

  “Tom, calm down.”

  “What am I to do? I have to think of Juanita. If he starts something, they could drag Juanita in on it, question her, bring it all back for her. She couldn’t take it! She couldn’t take it! But I couldn’t kill him, either. People would ask questions. He told his friends he was coming here just to look for work.” He stopped pacing, facing his father and looking helpless. His eyes shone with a mixture of desperation and bitter hatred. “That bastard!” he hissed. “It is not me that I am worried about. It’s Juanita! It took so long to get her back to normal. Everything is so good now.”

  Caleb walked closer and grasped Tom’s shoulders. “And it’s going to stay that way. Stay calm and tell me everything he said.”

  Tom closed his eyes and sighed, turning and sitting down wearily in a stuffed leather chair. He rubbed his eyes as he began the story, while Caleb listened closely. Afterward, Caleb walked to the window, gazing out over the beautiful ranch that belonged to his son. He said nothing for several long minutes. A mantel clock ticked quietly.

  “There is a way we can beat this thing completely, Tom—without your having to pay that man a cent or even worry about his telling others,” Caleb finally spoke up, turning to face his son.

  Tom frowned. “How? I can see no way, Father, short of killing him.”

  “You won’t have to kill him.” Caleb came closer. “Tom, he never saw me. He probably doesn’t even know I exist. We have never even been to Sonoma yet since we’ve been here. I came straight from San Francisco here, and Sarah and I have yet to go into town. No one who knows you in town has met me.”

  “So what?”

  “I can clear you, Tom,” Caleb said, his voice cool and sure. “You go to Sonoma—challenge this man to go ahead and talk. Go straight to the law there and tell them what has happened—tell them you wish to have this thing cleared up right away. Let them accuse you all they want. Don’t worry that some of them think you might be guilty.”

  Tom shook his head. “Father, I don’t understand—”

  “While you’re in Sonoma and everyone is arguing over your possibly being the leader of Los Malos, the real leader will strike again!”

  Tom stared at him for several long seconds; again the only sound was the ticking clock. Then Tom’s eyes widened and he felt a chill. “Your?”

  Caleb’s eyes glittered with sure victory for his son. “Why not? All you have to do is tell me how you dressed—how you painted yourself. I’ll attack one or two American settlements. I’ll try not to kill anyone—just do some damage and put a good scare in them—enough that they will come running into town to tell everyone the phantom Indian man has struck again. You will have the best alibi of all. You will be right there among them.”

  Tom held his eyes, his love for his father never more intense. “It would be dangerous, Father. They would shoot at you. You could be hurt—or killed. It’s too risky.”

  Caleb grinned almost wickedly. “I can do it, Tom, and no one will know the difference. All I do is lie low afterward for a long time. I will strike at night, while the men all think I’m in the house sleeping with my wife. During the day I’ll be at my chores as always. I’ll strike the night before you leave and again the night you are there so that the news comes quickly.”

  “What about Sarah? What about the men wondering why you didn’t go into town with me?”

  “If they find out what is happening in town and wonder why I am not at your side, I’ll tell them Sarah isn’t well, and that Juanita is very upset over the reason you went into Sonoma. You will give the same story. We’ll tell Sarah but not Juanita. We’ll try to keep it from her, at least until it’s over. It will take a few days for the news even to get back to your men.”

  Tom sighed, standing up. “Sarah will be so worried. And so will I. I don’t like it, Father.”

  “It’s the only way, and you know it. You’ll be taking a risk yourself, you know. An angry crowd could gather. That’s why I have to attack settlements closest to town so that the news gets there quickly. If it works, you’re a free man. No one will doubt you again. And the phantom Indian will simply disappear again.”

  Their eyes held. “If you got hurt or killed, I would never forgive myself, Father. I have suffered enough guilt over feeling responsible for what happened to Juanita in the first place.”

  “If something happened to me, you would never have to feel guilty. It’s what I want to do. It’s my idea, not yours. And I would die helping my son. I can think of no better way to die. You would do the same for Tony, whether he was a baby or forty years old. I want to do it, Tom.”

  Tom turned away, swallowing back tears. “Apparently there was a reason God sent you when He did.” He breathed deeply. “You would have to be very careful. There are many who would like to say they are the one who captured or killed the legendary leader of Los Malos.”

  Caleb walked up and grasped his son’s arm. “I am Blue Hawk, Tom. I might be getting older, but I’m still capable and strong. The only way out of this is to clear you completely so you never have to live with that cloud hanging over your head.”

  Tom met the man’s eyes. “I am afraid it makes sense.” His eyes were watery. “I will explain to you how you must dress and paint yourself.” He suddenly embraced the man. “God be with you, Father.”

  • Chapter Twenty-five •

  Sarah waited impatiently, pacing in the dark room while the rest of the household slept, including Juanita, who thought Tom had only gone to town on business. She would probably find out he was in trouble soon enough, but so far not even the men at the ranch knew why he had gone.

  This was Sarah’s second night without sleep—and Caleb’s. The first night he had ridden out after the men were bedded down for the night. Caleb knew where guards were kept and how to get around them so that none of them knew he had gone. He was back at dawn, having already washed off his war paint. He rode into the fields and corrals as though he had been up early and was already out getting some work done.

  In order to keep things looking normal, Caleb was forced to put in a regular day’s work so that no one would suspect he had not slept at all the night before. That made this second night even more dangerous. He was tired and would be forced to put in yet another day’s work when he returned, taking only a short nap when he came in at dawn and perhaps catching some sleep at lunchtime.

  This second night he had ridden out before sundown, telling the hired hands he was going to the mine. They wouldn’t really notice that he did not return that night. They had their own lives and chores. None would be aware that after leaving the mine Caleb would again go on into the hills, where he would paint his face and don his Indian dress and weapons and hit a settlement before full dark, so that the settlers would get a good look at him.

  Again, that second night, a wild-eyed, painted Indian rode screaming through farms, yelping war whoops and spooking cattle. Caleb continued his rampage well after dark to ensure there would be plenty of alarmed settlers who would go running into Sonoma. At two o’clock in the morning he attacked his fifth settlement: trampling crops, running off horses and cattle, knocking down fences, smashing windows. He had to smile to himself at how easy it would be to truly destroy these settlers single-handedly if he was serious. He had shot at several of them, deliberately missing. But it would have been easy to shoot them down, most of them were so frightened and inept.

  The raids brought Caleb’s Indian blood to the surface, and he could sometimes feel the true anger of his relatives who were themselves becoming more and more belligerent against the whites who continued to infiltrate their land. He trampled through a cornfield, wielding his war club and riding right next
to the settlers’ cabin, smashing the club through a window. The part of him that understood the hard life these people led made him feel remorseful, but he reminded himself that he was doing this for his son.

  Someone inside the cabin screamed, and moments later a man came out carrying a rifle, watching a dark figure on a horse that circled behind the cabin and then came toward him. Man and horse cleared a fence and headed right for the front porch. Orange fire spit from the end of a pistol the “wild Indian” fired, and a bullet bit the doorway no more than an inch past the settler’s head, startling the man so that he ducked and fumbled with his rifle. The Indian rode right up onto the porch, pinning the settler against the wall while the man’s wife screamed his name from inside the house.

  “American trash,” the Indian hissed. “Go back to where you came from!”

  He rode off the porch and disappeared into the night.

  “Alfred! Alfred, what is it!” the woman inside screamed.

  The man slowly rose, hurrying to aim his rifle. He got off a shot but was sure he had hit nothing. The ghostly figure was gone. The settler’s wife opened the door and yelled for him.

  “I’m right here, Jane.”

  “What happened!”

  “I don’t know. I . . . I think it was him.”

  “Who?”

  “That Indian. That one they talk about that used to lead The Bad Ones. In the moonlight . . .” He swallowed back his fright. “I could see his face—painted. It must have been black and white like they say—one side was real bright in the moonlight. The other side I couldn’t even see.”

  “Oh, Alfred, what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. But come morning I’m going into Sonoma to tell the authorities that bastard is back. They’ll find him this time!”

  Neither of them knew that in Sonoma the town was already buzzing with gossip. “The Indian” had already hit three settlements the night before, casting doubt on the story of one Francesco Fajardo, who claimed he knew who the Indian leader of Los Malos was, angrily accusing a man who had won the respect of many of the townspeople, Tom Sax.

  Fajardo was furious that Tom had refused to pay him any money and had himself gone directly to the sheriff. Fajardo was sure it would have been easy to gain glory by revealing the identity of the infamous phantom Indian. But to his surprise the people of Sonoma supported Tom. After all, Sax had a lot of money in their bank. His huge ranch and gold mine meant a good deal of business for several Sonoma citizens. And the man had a beautiful young wife and a new baby boy. How could he possibly be the phantom Indian? Why would he strike the night before and turn himself in the next day? And those who had recently suffered the Indian’s newest attacks claimed he had long hair, just as he did in the earlier days. Tom Sax had short hair, and it had been short since they had known him. Tom Sax was soft-spoken, a true gentleman and a man of wealth. Why would he return to raiding, even if he was the infamous Indian leader? And Tom Sax had a bad leg, injured by a wild mustang. All the new friends Tom had made around Sonoma believed that. After all, Sax worked with horses all the time.

  Tom sat in a jail cell that very night while citizens debated the ridiculous charges of Francesco Fajardo. Francesco himself was in near shock. And while he angrily drank away his problems in a saloon, Tom sat praying for freedom to go back to Juanita before she discovered what was happening, and Caleb Sax headed back home, hoping he had done enough damage to save his son from hanging.

  In the morning Caleb showed up, riding in from the north range as though he had been out early again. There was no sign of paint on his face, no trace of the wild and infamous phantom Indian. He told one of Tom’s men that his shoulder was bothering him and that he was going to the house for a while. The man smiled and nodded and went about his business.

  Caleb rode up to the house, and a very tired-looking Sarah greeted him at the door. “Come, to the bedroom,” Caleb told her. “I don’t want Juanita to see me yet. Where is she?”

  “She’s in the kitchen feeding Tony.”

  Her heart tightened at the odd pale look of her dark-skinned husband. It was more than just being tired. He walked to their room and closed the door, then hurried to the bed, sitting down on it. “I’ve been shot, Sarah,” he groaned.

  “Oh, my God,” she whimpered, hurrying over to him.

  “Stay calm.” He kept his own voice steady and reassuring. “Help me get this shirt off. The bullet ripped right through, under my right arm. It bled a lot—but I don’t think it hurt anything vital.” He grimaced as she pulled off the cotton shirt he wore to see bandages wrapped clumsily around the wound.

  “Oh, Caleb, you could have been killed!” she fussed, unwrapping the bloody bandages.

  He reached up and squeezed her arm. “You’ve got to try to hide this, Sarah, even from Tom.”

  “Caleb, he should know—”

  “No! I don’t want him carrying that burden. I can hide it.”

  “Caleb, I can tell already that you can hardly move your arm.” Her eyes were tearing as she threw aside the bandages and hurried to bring over a pan of water and a clean rag. “Are you sure the bullet went through?”

  “I’m sure. I don’t dare go to a doctor, for obvious reasons. You’ve got to clean it out and rewrap it, and I’ve got to go put in a day’s work as if nothing is wrong.”

  “Caleb, you can’t!”

  “Yes, I can. You’ve got to help me do this, Sarah.” Their eyes held and he squeezed her hand. “Be strong for me.”

  She stiffened and nodded as he lay down on his left side. With much effort he moved his arm straight out so that Sarah could wash the hole just under his right shoulder blade and the one just beneath his right breast where the bullet had exited. How he loved her for the strength and calm she could summon when necessary. That strength had seen her through a lifetime of hardships.

  “Pour some whiskey in it. The last thing I need is infection. If I can keep from getting an infection, I can hide it.”

  She worked over the wound, struggling not to break down and cry. “What about Tom?” she asked.

  “If he’s in a lot of trouble, someone will come and get us. Otherwise, I expect he’ll be riding home himself soon. A couple of the men have to go to Sonoma today, so we’ll know soon enough. I’ll get him out of town myself, if things go wrong. But after last night I don’t think anyone will question whether or not Tom is the culprit.”

  She cleaned and wrapped the wound as best she could. She set the pan aside as Caleb rolled onto his back, grimacing and breathing deeply. Sarah knelt down beside the bed, putting her head down on the edge.

  Caleb touched her hair, the one small movement taking great effort. “Come up here beside me, woman.”

  She moved onto the bed, lying down on his left side. He put his arm out and held her close, kissing her hair.

  “It’s done, Sarah. I’ll be all right. You just get a little rest and try not to let Juanita see you looking all upset.”

  “I’m so tired.” She broke into quiet tears. “I could have lost you!” she whispered, clinging to his arm.

  He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, Sarah, to put you through this. It was all I could think of to help Tom.”

  “I know,” she whispered. How she loved him for the sacrifices he was always willing to make for his children. If only James had recognized that side of his father. “I hope Tom is all right.”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Caleb, if they ever figure out it was you . . .”

  He gave her a squeeze but with little strength. He felt suddenly very weak. “They won’t find out. If they do, I’ll just go down in history as the infamous phantom Indian. That’s not such a bad way for somebody like me to go, is it?”

  The sheriff of Sonoma and the bank president, Miles Sherman, both came to Tom’s cell only hours after Caleb had returned to the ranch after his second night of raiding. “You’re free to go, Tom,” Sherman told him.

  Tom looked up at them, rising from hi
s cot.

  “The Indian hit again last night,” the sheriff said. “It’s pretty obvious where you were. There’s nothing left to discuss and no reason to hold you.” He opened the cell door. “I’m sorry I had to put you in here at all, but we had to check it out. In fact, you have every right to have this Francesco Fajardo arrested for trying to blackmail you, if you want.”

  Tom followed the man out into the main office, where he picked up his pistol and rifle. “The hell with Fajardo. I just wanted to get it all straight. Now I want to go home.” He put on his hat. “Thank God this phantom Indian, or whatever people call him, decided to strike again.” He kept his eyes cool, forcing himself to show no emotion. “Anybody catch him or wound him?” he asked casually.

  Sherman shook his head. “No. He got away again. I don’t know how he manages to disappear like he does. By the way, a couple of your men are outside. Came into town this afternoon and heard you were in jail. The whole town has been talking about the Indian. They couldn’t help but hear what was happening.”

  Tom strapped on his gun. “It’s too bad he can’t be caught. A lot of people would sleep better.”

  “Well, we’ll search the hills again,” the sheriff spoke up. “But I don’t expect to find much of anything. At least no one was killed this time. But just as before a lot of property was damaged.” He handed Tom his wallet and money. “You had better get going. Your wife must be worried sick. You should have let us send a man out to tell her what’s been going on.”

  “No. She gets upset very easily. I told her I came to town on business. I was hoping things would work out and I could leave her completely out of it.” He shoved his money into his pants pocket, looking at Miles Sherman. “Thank you, sir, for supporting me and keeping a mob off my back.”