Walk Till You Disappear

by Jacqueline Dembar Greene

  Mamá’s forehead was furrowed with concern. Quietly she said, “I have always felt blessed to have found your father, and to share our Jewish backgrounds. We understand each other, and believe in what we must do. That is why we have told you the story and told it to your brothers.”

  Mamá continued in her gentle voice. “Just as our ancestors welcomed the Sabbath on Friday nights, I willingly light the candles and bake the braided bread. Abranos haven’t known the Hebrew blessings for generations, but I would never let the tradition die. Perhaps, as we learn more, we will embrace this lost heritage. However small our knowledge, you must carry on the traditions, as well.”

  Miguel looked from the wooden crucifix that hung on the wall to the face of the peddler, with his scruffy beard. Shock and humiliation washed over him, and he felt his breath coming in great gulps. “It’s not true!” he declared. “No one in my family was ever an Israelite!”

  Mamá rose from her chair and stretched out her arms. “Ah, Miguelito, you were not ready.”

  Miguel’s anger mixed with hot tears that streaked his face. With everyone’s eyes fixed on him, he was overcome with shame. He turned and rushed into the kitchen.

  Carmella looked up in alarm, the dish she was washing slipping into the dishpan. “¿Qué pasa?” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

  Miguel bolted out the door. In the comfort of darkness, he raced toward the corral.

  “¿Quién pasa?” called a ranch hand, posted as a guard. ”Who’s there?”

  Miguel choked out a reply. “Yo soy Miguel!” Behind him, he heard the dull thud of his brothers’ boots on the packed ground. His fingers fumbled to untie the reins of a saddle horse hitched at the railing. He mounted and raced off, kicking the horse’s flanks harder than he ever had before. His brothers’ shouts echoed in his ears.

  “Miguelito! Come back!” Their calls were swept away like the air that flew past Miguel as he rode. He couldn’t face Doc Meyer or the raggedy peddler. Not Mamá or Papá or his brothers. He couldn’t go back. Finally, he would ride across the desert alone.

  Chapter 5

  A Desert Ride

  Miguel urged the horse faster, keeping pace with his galloping heartbeat. He had to get away from his family’s shocking secrets, away from the diary’s awful tale. Pale moonlight outlined the dark shapes of boulders and cactus, and the horse changed direction often to avoid obstacles in its path.

  Miguel bent low over the horse’s neck, racing forward blindly until his head was emptied of all thoughts. He sensed only the deepening chill of the spring night and the feeling that he and the horse were one, whispering across the desert like the wind.

  The horse’s panting disturbed the silence that engulfed him. Miguel rubbed his hand along the back of the animal’s neck, and frothy sweat slicked against his skin. He slowed to a trot, fearing the horse would collapse from exhaustion. He could tell by its swayed back that it was an old mount. Papá would never forgive me for deliberately pushing a horse too hard.

  Miguel looked for a place to rest. The horse shuddered, its belly heaving between Miguel’s legs. He jerked the reins to the left and headed for a stand of cottonwood trees silhouetted against the starry sky. He didn’t remember a grove like this near the ranch. If there were cottonwoods, there was probably water too.

  How far had he come? I don’t even know which direction I rode, Miguel realized. The horse had taken many turns, and he hadn’t noted any passing landmarks to help guide his way back.

  The cottonwoods offered a welcoming shelter. Like the horse, Miguel was panting from the exertion of the ride. Vapor formed as their warm breath hit the air. With the sun gone, the desert was quickly growing cold. Miguel loosened his grip on the reins and slid onto the sandy soil, but the horse shied away.

  “Whoa, there,” Miguel said softly. He stroked the horse’s long nose, as she snorted and pulled back. The sour odor of cat urine drifted in the air. Now Miguel understood the horse’s nervousness. A puma had visited the stream not long before and marked its territory. He hoped the big cat was not lurking in the trees. He stood still, listening for any sound, but heard only the faint rippling of a brook.

  Miguel led the horse to the water, and it lowered its head to drink from the shallow stream. Miguel knelt down, holding tightly to the reins, and cupped his hand into the cold water. His hair fell toward his face as he sipped the water that trickled through his fingers. I’ve forgotten my hat, he thought with regret. He had rushed from the house without thinking. Besides protecting him, the hat would have made a useful cup.

  Miguel heard a faint rustle in the scrubby bushes at the far edge of the cottonwoods. He groped along the stream bank until he found a willowy branch. If a puma was lurking in the brush, he might be able to frighten it away. He whipped the branch against a tree, and the sound cut through the air. Miguel blinked into the darkness, alert to danger. He thought he heard the sound of low breathing, and tried to peer into the underbrush.

  I probably heard my own breathing or the panting of the horse, he reassured himself. Maybe the earlier noise was just a burrowing pack rat. Or was it a mountain lion, ready to spring? A shiver of fear spread down the back of his neck.

  Miguel knew the horse’s energy was spent. It tossed its head and pawed the ground. Miguel couldn’t seem to calm it, but he would have to stay where he was for the night, no matter what other creature might be hidden nearby. He wasn’t likely to find another sheltered spot.

  As soon as the sun rose in the morning, he would look for the Santa Catalina Mountains. The ranch was just southeast of the tallest peak. Miguel’s brothers would think their Miguelito needed an escort. If he could just get home before they headed out to search for him, they would see that he was old enough to take care of himself. He made up his mind to start before dawn.

  A snapping twig made Miguel jump. He whacked the branch against the ground, but only succeeded in scaring the horse, which gave a whimpering whinny.

  If there’s a rifle in the saddlebags, I can shoot if I have to. He doubted he could hit a moving puma, but even the sound of a rifle shot might be enough to scare it off.

  He rummaged through the saddlebags, pulling out a pack of playing cards tied with twine, and then a medicine pouch with vials of powders and rolls of white bandages. This must be Doc Meyer’s mare, Miguel realized. He searched his memory for her name . . . Zuzi! That was it!

  “Easy, Zuzi,” he murmured, and the jittery horse turned her head as if she recognized her name. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Miguel was sorry he had taken Charlie Meyer’s mare. The apothecary would be worried about her, and probably angry that Miguel had been so thoughtless. Surely, Papá would give Doc Meyer another mount to ride home, and Miguel would return Zuzi in the morning. Hadn’t the apothecary said that his horse knew the way home, even if he rode her while he was asleep? All Miguel would have to do is let her lead the way.

  He continued to search the bags, pulling out a leather hobble that he slipped over the horse’s forelegs. The soft loops would keep her from running off in the night without being tied up. Miguel foraged in the saddlebag again and discovered a horn-handled jackknife. The small blade wasn’t as much protection as a rifle, but it could be useful if he needed to defend himself. He dropped the knife into his left pocket. He uncinched the saddle and rubbed the horse dry with the saddle blanket, talking in soft tones. Next, he slid the harness over Zuzi’s ears, which twitched alertly, and slipped the bit from her mouth. There was little to graze on, but at least the water would hold her overnight.

  “I promise you a bucket of the best feed on the ranch, girl,” he whispered. “Mañana—tomorrow—as soon as we get home.”

  Thoughts of Miguel’s family came rushing back. He would soon have to face Papá’s anger and the shame of what he had done. Running away had been childish, just when he wanted to be treated like a man. Papá had kept the Abranos’ secret hidden so long. Why had he told Miguel at all? Bitterness rose in his throat. His life
could never be the same now that he knew his ancestors were Israelites. If only he could wipe the memory away and stop feeling its nagging ache.

  Under the shelter of the trees, Miguel wrapped himself in the blanket. It was damp with the horse’s sweat, but he was too cold to be fussy. As he fought an overwhelming tiredness to stay alert, the night’s events played out in his mind like a recurring dream. It doesn’t matter about some dead ancestor, he thought. That doesn’t make me any different.

  Would the church still consider him a true Catholic? He would have to tell Father Ignacio the whole story and listen to the priest’s decision. Miguel fought against tears, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

  As hard as he tried, his eyes kept closing, and he dozed for minutes at a time before jerking awake. Suddenly, Zuzi whinnied in alarm. Miguel leaped to his feet. A sharp pinging sound screamed through the air as an arrow flew past Miguel’s shoulder and lodged in a tree with a loud thwack!

  Indians! Miguel raced to the horse and began pulling at the hobble. His hands fumbled with the loops as Zuzi shied backward. Hurry! he urged himself. Faster! He never should have hobbled the horse, or removed her harness. He should have been ready to ride at the slightest sign of danger.

  Stepping from behind the trees, a band of warriors appeared like apparitions in the night. Miguel froze at the twang of their bowstrings pulling taut. Even in the darkness he could see the arrows pointed at his chest. A hand gripped his arm, and Miguel struggled to pull free.

  The rustling Miguel had heard had been the warriors, not a puma. If only he’d paid attention to Zuzi’s skittishness, he might have ridden away in time.

  In a flash, he thought of the jackknife in his pocket, but what use was such a small weapon against a band of armed men? Like in the journal’s story of Aharon ben Avraham, who was defenseless against the soldiers of the Inquisition, one small knife was useless.

  The warrior who held him pointed at Miguel’s boots. “Give!” he commanded.

  Miguel stared into the stony face of the man towering over him. A clutch of feathered arrows protruded from a beaded leather case slung across his back. It was different from any quiver Miguel had ever seen, with two cases joined together and long fringes flowing from its edge.

  He was paralyzed with fear. Without warning, the Indian cuffed Miguel sharply across the ear. The man’s long black hair moved in time with the blow, swinging beneath a white headband. Miguel fell backward, and the horse blanket dropped to the ground.

  “Give!” the warrior repeated more gruffly. He kicked at the leather boots. Miguel’s face and ear stung, and he didn’t wait to be hit again. He pulled off his boots and handed them up. The men surrounding him wore tall leather moccasins. The tops were folded over below the knees. The only other clothing they wore was a cotton breechcloth wound between their legs and hanging in long folds from their waists.

  Sweat beaded on Miguel’s forehead in spite of the chill. He remembered which tribe wore such distinctive moccasins and carried double quivers. “Apache,” he breathed.

  “No Apache!” sneered the warrior as he tugged Miguel’s boots on in place of his moccasins. “We are Indé!” The other members of the band kept their arrows trained on Miguel. They stood silently as their companion strode off into the shadows, digging his booted feet into the soft earth.

  A second Indian pulled the hobble from Doc Meyer’s horse and tossed it into the brush. He mounted the horse bareback and rode in a different direction than his companion had walked. Miguel had always believed he could outride any attackers, but now he had no horse. A cold fear settled in the pit of his stomach.

  Miguel didn’t think he’d ever heard of a tribe called Indé. If these warriors weren’t Apache, maybe they would be satisfied with taking his horse and his boots. It will take me longer, but I can walk home, even if I have to do it in my socks, he consoled himself. If only they let me go.

  The half light of dawn began to lighten the sky. Miguel shivered and wondered how the warriors surrounding him could travel with bare chests. Didn’t they feel the icy chill?

  They lowered their bows and returned their arrows to their quivers. Then the band formed a line. The leader at the front picked up the horse blanket and after examining it admiringly, draped it around his shoulders like a trophy. Miguel felt grateful that he still had his shirt. Maybe now they’ll leave me, he thought hopefully.

  The leader roughly pulled Miguel to his feet and pushed him into the middle of the line. He pointed in a different direction than the paths taken by the two warriors who had stolen Miguel’s horse and his boots.

  “Walk,” a slim muscular Indian behind him ordered. This time, Miguel obeyed immediately, struggling to keep up with the swift pace.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked. His question hung in the air, unanswered. Miguel watched the narrow path in front of him. He didn’t want to tread on a prowling rattlesnake without his boots for protection. He turned his head to the warrior behind him. “Where are we going?”

  “No talk!” the young man growled. Miguel marched forward, walking into the desert on an unknown trail.

  Chapter 6

  A Grueling March

  The horizon glowed red, and Miguel watched flaming rays of sun reach into the desert sky. I’ve got to remember that the rising sun is on my right, he thought. That means we’re walking north. He looked at the mountains that loomed in the distance. He had to remember the way back in case there was any chance of escape.

  Miguel’s socks snagged against the rough stones underfoot, and he was breathless from walking so fast. Yet his captors seemed to exert no energy at all, moving along without slackening their pace. Whenever Miguel slowed, he was shoved from behind. He kept looking for the warrior who had left wearing his boots, but the man hadn’t returned. I’d be able to walk faster with my boots on, he complained silently.

  The sun rose overhead, heat shimmered up from the desert, and still Miguel was forced on. The shivers that had slipped up his spine during the night turned to rivers of sweat that rolled between his shoulders and soaked his shirt in the glaring midday heat.

  When the sun became oppressive, the band walked in the shade of rocky outcroppings and occasionally stopped for a drink. Miguel was amazed that the men seemed to know exactly where to find a pool or a trickle of water. Now they climbed through a cluster of boulders and gathered around a shallow depression filled with clear water. Miguel was mystified. Did they often travel the same path, knowing the water was there, or had they just discovered it for the first time?

  Each Indé scooped a gourdful of water, and he watched them drink while his own mouth stayed parched. They filled their gourds a second time and added a dry powder from their leather pouches. It looked like the cornmeal Carmella ground and stored in a clay jar. Miguel watched hungrily as the warriors stirred the mixture with their fingers and scooped it into their mouths.

  He hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s dinner. The memory of Mamá’s Friday night meal sent pangs of hunger through his stomach, and feelings of remorse through his head.

  Only after the warriors had eaten did they seem to remember Miguel’s presence. The line leader handed him a dipper and motioned to the water hole. Miguel filled the gourd and drank, feeling the icy mountain water wet his dry lips and throat. He dipped again, but before he could drink, the leader put his hand across the top of the gourd.

  “Pinole,” he said, pouring some grain into the gourd. He made a stirring motion in the air with his fingers, and Miguel copied what the others had done. The loose mixture was gritty, but more filling than he expected.

  Just when Miguel thought he would have a chance to rest, the line formed again and he was marched into the low foothills. Once he stumbled on some loose rocks and fell forward. Immediately, the warrior at his back pulled him to his feet and pushed him along at the same relentless pace. Miguel searched the man’s eyes for any sign of kindness, but the chiseled face before him was as expressionless as a stone.
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  Two warriors ahead of Miguel spoke briefly in their own language. Although Miguel was surrounded, he had never felt more alone.

  The band traveled higher into the foothills, following a rough trail that wound between large rock formations. Miguel would never have realized there was a path if he had been on his own. He was traveling farther and farther from home with no way to escape.

  Now Miguel hoped that his brothers and Papá had organized a search party that might rescue him. His mind swirled with thoughts of other ranchers who had been captured, always by Apache. The men of Tucson would gather quietly in the center of town and form a posse to ride off and search. They alerted the cavalry at Fort Lowell, and mounted soldiers joined the hunt. Sometimes the rescue party succeeded. More often, they brought home a bloodied body draped across a pack mule.

  Miguel’s sense of helplessness deepened. How could anyone search for me? No one knows about the cottonwood trees, or even that I’ve been captured. How would they know which direction I rode? Even Miguel couldn’t say which way he had gone or how he had ended up at the stream.

  A rough push from behind forced Miguel to focus on the trail in front of him. As if he were a horse prodded with sharp spurs, he trotted ahead in spite of the heat and his thirst, in spite of the stones that cut through his socks and bit into his skin. Soon shadows lengthened in the fading afternoon light. Not even the whistle of a bird broke the silence. Then, like a rock dropped into a well, the sun fell below the mountain.

  Miguel was overcome with exhaustion. Maybe it would be better to be killed than take one more step, he thought. Just then, the band entered a clearing bordered by overhanging boulders. A campfire glowed beneath the shelter, and five warriors sat cooking shanks of meat. Miguel blinked, wondering if this was all a mirage.

  The warriors greeted one another with words that sounded more foreign than the German greetings Doc Meyer and the peddler had exchanged, and less understandable than the prayer Jacob Franck had chanted. He sank onto a flat rock, his socks stained with blood from his cut feet. A young Indé with a faint scar on his neck strode through the camp, and Miguel immediately recognized the man who had stolen his boots. The thief fixed a cold stare at Miguel and turned away. He had taken a different path, yet ended up at the campsite before Miguel and the band that had led him there.