Walk Till You Disappear

by Jacqueline Dembar Greene

  He’s wearing moccasins again, Miguel realized. What has he done with my boots?

  The band relaxed around the fire. None seemed tired from the long hike, and none seemed to fear discovery by a search party.

  Miguel had begun to distinguish between the different men and had given each one a name that reminded him of their different attitudes. In his thoughts, he named the warrior who walked behind him and prodded him along the trail as Stone Face. Now Stone Face handed Miguel a gourd of water, and he gratefully gulped it down. His thirst was unbearable, his throat choked with dust.

  Miguel chose a name for the Indé man who had taken his boots and returned without them—Bootless Warrior. The thief approached Miguel with a second dipper of water, and Miguel eyed him with suspicion. He reached cautiously for the gourd, but Bootless Warrior tipped out its contents, pouring water over Miguel’s raw, bloodied feet. A thin smile crossed his lips as Miguel gasped at the stinging pain.

  The man pounded his fist against his bare chest. “Indé strong!” he taunted Miguel.

  The insult stung as much as the water that ran over Miguel’s cut flesh. He didn’t need to be reminded that the warriors were stronger than he was. How long will they hold me before they decide I’m slowing them down too much? If he couldn’t keep up, they would surely kill him. Gingerly, he peeled off the wet, shredded socks and tossed them aside. They hadn’t protected him on the march and weren’t of any use.

  One of the men stepped closer and spoke to Bootless Warrior. Miguel couldn’t tell where one word ended and another began. The sounds grated like stones rumbling down a mountain.

  But Bootless Warrior understood perfectly. He tugged the front of Miguel’s shirt. “Give!” he commanded. Miguel didn’t want to lose his shirt, but he knew it was useless—and dangerous—to refuse. He pulled the shirt over his head, feeling the cold night air creeping up his arms and chest. A few more warriors gathered around, fingering the cotton fabric and admiring the tiny gold stars that dotted the midnight blue cloth. Then Miguel watched helplessly as Bootless Warrior sliced it with a sharp stone and distributed the strips to his companions. With a snorting laugh, he tossed the detached sleeves at Miguel’s feet.

  Miguel seized the remnants and wrapped them tightly around his cut feet. Like his shredded socks, the cotton bindings wouldn’t last long. He edged closer to the fire, hugging his arms around his bare back.

  Fat sizzled into the flames, and an unfamiliar odor rose from the cooking meat. Miguel’s stomach rumbled its hunger. He and his captors had eaten almost nothing all day. The warrior who led the group adjusted the horse blanket around his shoulders. Miguel thought of him as Line Leader. He leaned forward and handed Miguel a bone, thick with blackened meat. The smell was repulsive, but Miguel’s gnawing hunger overcame his reluctance. Without food, he would surely die.

  Bootless Warrior glared as Miguel chewed at the tough, sinewy meat. What animal was it from? His captor seemed to guess Miguel’s question. He pointed behind some jagged boulders, and Miguel turned to see a large carcass, its bones sticking out helter-skelter. A leather saddle was tossed to the side. With horror, Miguel recognized the remains of Charlie Meyer’s horse. His stomach roiled. Was he eating Zuzi?

  A wave of nausea rose into Miguel’s throat. Dropping the bone as if it were a live snake, he fell to his knees, retching into the sand. Through the pounding pulse in his ears, he heard the derisive laughter of his captors. Bootless Warrior, Line Leader, and Stone Face sneered.

  Every muscle in Miguel’s body ached, and his stomach gurgled its emptiness. He crawled to a patch of sand surrounded by boulders and curled up as tightly as a fist. He fell into a fitful sleep filled with shadowy images of riderless horses galloping across the desert.

  Chapter 7

  The Cry of the Owl

  Days passed, and each one brought new challenges. Now Miguel inched blindly up a rock face, groping for small crevices to use as toe and finger holds. His shoulders cramped with the effort, and he feared he would drop onto the trail below. He tried not to look up at Bootless Warrior and his companions who peered over the ledge above him, judging his progress.

  Miguel sensed Bootless Warrior’s withering stare. Below, thorny cactus sprouted from narrow cracks and stunted bushes twisted toward the light. The desert floor was far below him, and Miguel’s head reeled when he realized how high he was as he clung to the rocks. He forced himself to focus on the next place where he might find a grip.

  Pull, he told himself, forcing himself a few inches higher. His bare chest rubbed against the cold stones, but perspiration beaded on his forehead. Reaching the top only meant more marching, but losing his hold meant certain death. He tightened his fingers. Pull!

  For the past three days, Miguel had followed the mountain trail relentlessly from dawn until nightfall. Today, when the trail ended at the rock face, the warriors in front of him had scaled the sheer cliff as if they were scrambling across a flat spit of sand.

  Miguel was constantly surprised by their skills. Now he understood why the cavalry had so much trouble tracking down raiders. Each of the warriors in this band could walk swiftly for ten or twelve hours without slowing. They wound between rocks and through prickly underbrush following paths that no soldier would ever notice and no horse could travel.

  It seemed that just when Miguel thought he would collapse without a drink to revive him, the band came to a water hole. One afternoon they filled their gourds from a steady drip inside a shallow cave. They ate little, but there was always something to stanch their hunger. Besides pieces of dried horsemeat, which Miguel refused, the men collected roots and wild onions, and still had a supply of cornmeal for the grainy pinole.

  Climbing the steep rock wall was just one more proof that Bootless Warrior and the others were stronger than Miguel, and completely at home in the desert or in the mountains. Miguel tried to ignore the fringe of hair that hindered his vision and the pain that coursed through his shoulders. Cautiously, he curled his bare toes into narrow slits in the rock. He slid one hand higher, groping for a thin ledge that might support his weight. His fingers hooked into a shallow indentation, but when he rested his weight against it, the rock crumbled and he began to slip.

  Without a word, Stone Face nudged his shoulder against Miguel’s rump. Steadied enough to continue, Miguel found another razor-thin crevice to support his fingers. Stone Face continued to climb, supporting Miguel from beneath. As Miguel stretched for one final pull, Line Leader reached down and yanked him over the top. Miguel’s chest scraped across the jagged outcroppings, and he stifled a cry. The band already thought he was weak. He didn’t need to prove it again.

  Just below, Stone Face and the four remaining warriors scaled the rock like sticky-toed lizards. Miguel had barely a moment for one last look at the dizzying height he had climbed before the group pushed on into the mountains. This time, Stone Face did not shove him into line. Instead, he pulled the headband from his head and offered it to Miguel. Was this a reward for climbing the cliff? Miguel would never have made it to the top without help. He took the faded cloth and tied it around his forehead, holding his hair away from his eyes. He was surprised that the wide strip of cloth served a useful purpose. He nodded his thanks, but Stone Face didn’t react in any way.

  Miguel struggled to keep his appointed place, fifth behind Line Leader, with five more Indé at his back. Like his shredded socks, the cotton bindings he had wrapped around his feet were in tatters and wouldn’t last much longer.

  In the past few days the band had climbed higher along the trail and the temperature had dropped steadily. Miguel shivered day and night without his shirt and was feverish with a cold that made his head feel as if it were stuffed with cotton. Line Leader glanced back as Miguel was seized with a fit of coughing that shook him to his bones.

  Bootless Warrior trotted alongside and shoved the tip of his bow against Miguel’s stomach. “Boy is soft,” he said derisively. Miguel stiffened, determined to prove him wrong. He wiped
at his dripping nose with the back of his hand and hurried to keep pace. He had to keep up to stay alive.

  The men emerged into the sunlight, and Miguel welcomed its warmth. From the desert floor where his journey had begun, to the higher peaks of the mountains, the landscape had completely changed. Wildflowers sprouted between rocks, grappling for a foothold just as Miguel had while climbing the rock face. Creosote bushes and brittle bush burst with yellow spring blossoms that nodded and bobbed while bees flitted between them.

  The silence around Miguel made him feel as if he were slowly disappearing. He longed to talk with someone just to feel that he was still Miguel. How different it would be to explore these mountains with his brothers and Papá. I’ve never been so far from home, he thought.

  Jacob Franck’s words echoed in his fuzzy head: how good it is to hear the language of the Old Country. Now Miguel understood the peddler’s feelings. Even if his brothers called him Miguelito, he would welcome the sound. How good it is . . . He trudged forward in a daze. He had hours to walk on his cut feet before he could rest for the night.

  Surely by now Papá knows I’ve been captured, he thought. The commander at Fort Lowell must have sent out troops. Miguel stealthily felt for the jackknife hidden in his pocket. If just a single warrior guarded him, he might have a chance to use it and make an escape. Or if his captors left him alone at night, he might be able to cut their bowstrings while they slept and slip away. Miguel was never tied up, but he was watched every moment.

  At camp that evening, Miguel sat in a darkened spot apart from the others. He unwound the strips of shredded cloth from his feet as the warriors sat around a low fire. Their voices were soft, but for the first time Miguel detected a note of anger, taut as a bowstring ready to shoot. One by one, each warrior spoke, and his companions listened without interruption. At home, discussions around the dinner table often turned into arguments with his brothers. Sometimes they all bellowed at once, until no one could hear the opinions of the others. Among the Indé there had been no arguments—until tonight.

  Bootless Warrior squatted close to the fire and spoke in an angry growl. When he finished, Line Leader rose to his full height, settling the horse blanket around his shoulders like a prince’s cape. He spoke in an even tone, holding each man in his gaze for a moment. His hands cut the air in a spreading motion, as if smoothing the ripples on a patch of windswept sand.

  Stone Face spoke in turn, his voice insistent. He gestured toward Bootless Warrior. Miguel had an uneasy sense that they were arguing about him. He watched closely, trying to learn what he could from their gestures and their tone.

  Suddenly, Bootless Warrior pulled an arrow from his quiver and stabbed it into the earth. “Pindah-lickoyee,” he shouted, curling his upper lip into a sneer.

  Miguel’s body tensed as an uneasy silence settled over the group. He shrank into the shadows, but Line Leader stepped forward and pulled him into the circle, gripping his arm tightly. The warrior talked and pointed repeatedly at Miguel.

  The campfire’s flames licked at the dead cactus wood and cast a red glow across the faces that glared up at him. Miguel tried to stand tall, but he was seized with fear. What did it all mean?

  Line Leader shouldered his bow and quiver and gave an order to the group in a voice so low it sounded like the growl of a dog about to attack. He kicked a spray of sand across the fire, and the rest of the band immediately gathered their belongings. Stone Face smothered the fire completely and scattered the hot ashes while another man swept the area with a pine branch, erasing every trace of their footprints.

  Line Leader pointed Miguel back into his place, and they filed away from camp. The argument and the sudden return to the trail seemed a dangerous sign. We’ve never traveled at night before. Maybe the warriors had not been arguing about him. Perhaps they were simply disagreeing about whether or not to continue walking in the dark. But why did Line Leader pull me in front of the group? Miguel worried.

  With a brief flutter of hope, he wondered if a search party had been sighted, forcing the men to keep moving. Was there a chance he might be rescued?

  The group walked more slowly in the dark, but still traveled faster than Miguel wished. His feet were swollen and tender from the cuts he had received along the trail. He hoped the night air was too cold for rattlesnakes or tarantulas to venture out. He didn’t want to tread on one of them in the dark.

  Bootless Warrior stepped behind him, and Miguel felt the warrior’s breath hot against his neck. This was the first time Stone Face hadn’t been at his back, and Miguel felt a ripple of fear race up his spine. If Line Leader had overruled Bootless Warrior’s argument at the campfire, the younger man might be angry. But it wasn’t my doing, Miguel thought. Several members of the band seemed to side with Bootless Warrior, but clearly Line Leader had made the decision to move on.

  Miguel longed for the sound of hoof beats. He hoped the cavalry had found his trail. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he prayed silently, help me in my hour of need.

  Miguel raised his arm to make the sign of the cross when he was struck from behind without warning. He cried out as pain pierced his left shoulder, and he stumbled to the ground. Bootless Warrior stood above him holding a stout branch.

  “Pindah-lickoyee!” the warrior shouted. In the weak moonlight, Miguel saw him lift the stick to strike again.

  “No!” he yelled. Miguel raised his right arm to protect himself, but the stick crashed against his head. Searing pain coursed through his temple, and Miguel felt a warm trickle of blood seep under his headband and over his eye.

  Stone Face jumped on Bootless Warrior, grappling for control of the stick. Miguel cowered at the edge of the trail as the two men fell to the ground in a fierce struggle.

  A whipping sound cut the air as a dark shadow swooped overhead, and an owl’s cry ripped eerily through the night like a shriek. To-whoo! To-whoo!

  Stone Face and Bootless Warrior stopped fighting as if on command, and the rest of the band stood as still as statues. Miguel sensed the fear that ran through them like a finger of lightning that crackles the air before a storm.

  He tried to reach for his knife, but his left arm dangled uselessly at his side. I’ve got to escape, he thought, struggling to rise. This is my chance! He pushed himself up with his right arm, and a sickening wave of dizziness washed over him. The warriors seemed to shimmer in the moonlight. Miguel swayed unsteadily, but no one made a move toward him.

  The ghostly white face of an owl swept down as the men crouched on the path. Its eerie screech faded into the distance along with the sound of its beating wings. As if released from a spell, the warriors ran off in disarray.

  Miguel steadied himself and stumbled back down the trail until he was alone. He teetered at the edge of a steep slope, considering how to climb down, when a threatening voice whispered from the darkness.

  “Pindah-lickoyee,” it breathed, the voice filled with contempt. Cold fear tightened Miguel’s throat and rooted him to the path as Bootless Warrior stepped from behind a bush. He swung his club against Miguel’s ribs, knocking him backward, over the edge of the steep path.

  Miguel tumbled like a kicked stone, his body striking against jagged rocks, branches, and cactus spines. Unable to stop, he plunged over the last precipice, dropping senseless onto the desert floor below.

  Chapter 8

  The Scorpion’s Sting

  Scorching sun burned Miguel’s bare chest, and his eyes fluttered open. He squinted against the strong light. Dark images of last night’s scuffle flashed into his memory before he remembered where he was.

  I’m alive, he thought. I still have a chance to get home. Miguel brushed away a host of swarming flies and felt sticky blood oozing beneath his headband. He gingerly touched a gash at his forehead.

  In spite of his wound, he felt a rush of relief. At least Bootless Warrior hasn’t found me. Not yet. The Indé traveled fast, and without Miguel to slow them down, they would move more swiftly. He tried to raise his left arm,
but excruciating pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips. His arm hung limply, broken or torn from its socket. With each breath, sharp stabs of pain radiated from his ribs.

  Miguel tried to push himself up with his good arm, but the strain of moving overwhelmed him. He slumped to the ground. Slowly, Miguel rolled onto his stomach, cactus thorns pressing into his skin. I’ve got to get out of the sun before it dries up every drop of moisture left in my body, he told himself. And I have to get out of sight. If he didn’t hide, he would be an easy target for Bootless Warrior’s arrows.

  Not far ahead, Miguel saw the lime-green bark of a paloverde tree at the base of the mountain. Its pale leaves sheltered a cluster of bushes. If only he could reach it, there would be some shade under its slender branches.

  Using one arm, Miguel dragged himself across the gravelly sand and scrubby brush. The desert around him was so silent he could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. After just a few minutes of effort, he had to rest. The tree hardly seemed any closer, but Miguel glanced back to gauge how far he had come. The impression of his body stood out in the sand like the flat trail of a giant snake. The Indé had wiped away every trace of their footprints as they traveled. Miguel’s wide track would be easy to follow, but he couldn’t retrace his path to erase it. He struggled forward another few inches.

  After what seemed like hours, Miguel made one final push and curled up against the trunk of the low tree. His skin was raw from dragging himself across the sand, and his sunburned chest felt as if it had been singed over a flame. He closed his eyes in the cooling shade and drifted in and out of sleep.