“I didn’t want to believe that my family was different than what I had always thought,” Miguel declared. “It scared me to hear what had happened to my ancestors under the laws of my own church. I couldn’t bear to listen! In just a few minutes, everything in my life changed—who I am, and who I thought I would become. I wanted my life to go back to the way it was before my father told that story—and I just ran. I never thought I would get so lost.”
Rushing Cloud gazed toward the horizon. “So, you escape twice. Once from your ancestor’s words, and again from Apachu who would change your life again. I think you are still the same inside—you are Miguel. Ancestors speak to us in many ways. You must only listen to know who you are.”
Rushing Cloud pointed to a cluster of spiny barrel cactus nestled at the foot of a spindly mesquite tree. “Can you see that we are traveling home?” he asked. “The cactus points the way. I’itoi, the Creator, tells them to bend toward the sun so the Desert People will never be lost.”
Miguel saw that the barrel cactus tilted slightly in one direction. “They must point south,” he marveled. He had seen such cactus a thousand times, yet never noticed how they grew. With Rushing Cloud at his side, it was as if he were learning to see the desert for the first time. Rushing Cloud was passing along the traditions of his elders as if Miguel would also keep them from being forgotten.
Miguel wondered if Aharon ben Avraham had truly changed his religious beliefs when he came to this new land. Had he simply hidden them so long they had been lost between one generation and the next? Rushing Cloud was certain that neither Miguel nor his family had changed deep in their hearts. His friend’s words settled into Miguel’s thoughts and rested there.
Perhaps Miguel could remain strong in his Catholic faith and still honor the memory of his ancestor’s life. Maybe the story of this ancient relative was God’s way of showing Miguel that each person had to make his own choices. There were many paths before him, and Miguel had to choose the one he would follow. It was far more difficult than finding his way across the desert, but he thought that he was coming closer to the right path.
After they had traveled a short distance, Rushing Cloud pointed to a deep circular depression in the sand. “When the rains come, this charco will fill with water.” He walked around the dry wash until he spotted a faint channel leading away from it. “Look, my friend. Here is where the water flows in from the mountain. We must find its mouth.”
The trail led into the foothills, where grasses and low bushes grew in abundance. Rushing Cloud pulled up some of the greens and fastened them under his belt.
Miguel sniffed the air. “Onions!” he said.
Rushing Cloud nodded. “When we stop, we can roast them.”
If there were onions growing, there had to be water nearby, Miguel thought. He bent low, parting the grasses as he went. The sand looked damp as he moved higher between the boulders. A faint trickle darkened a small rock, and a little farther ahead, Miguel found its source. A spring bubbled between a jumble of stones. “Water!” he called.
“Your eyes are open today, my friend,” Rushing Cloud said. Miguel captured a handful of the precious liquid, but when he drank his mouth filled with as much sand as water. He spit into the dirt.
Rushing Cloud laughed softly. He filled his gourd dipper with water, wrapped the edge of his shirt around it, and drank through the cloth. He rinsed out the wet sand that remained and handed his gourd and his shirt to Miguel. They each drank their fill and then traveled back down the slope in the deepening night. The silhouettes of giant saguaro stood out against the moonlight, their waxy white buds lit with a ghostly glow.
“Before long the saguaro fruit will ripen,” Rushing Cloud observed, craning his neck to look at the luminous flowers. “Then my village will move their spring camps to gather them.”
“Are the saguaro fruit good to eat?” Miguel asked.
“Yes. The women and girls strike the fruit with long sticks until they fall. Then the grandmothers cook them into syrup.” His voice held a hint of excitement. “Everyone fills their ollas, and at home we mix the syrup with water to make a sweet drink. Every family offers a few jugs to the Keeper of the Smoke. He lets the syrup ripen. When it is ready, we drink and sing songs to call the rain. On the fourth day, thunder announces the season of growing. Black clouds fly across the sky, and rain comes to water our fields. The charcos fill.” Rushing Cloud put his hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “My mother tells that I came with the summer rains. She looked to the sky and saw the clouds rushing to give us water just as I came into this life. That is why I am called Rushing Cloud.”
Miguel loved the time of year when thunderstorms washed the desert and the scent of creosote bushes filled the air. The ranch hands set rain barrels outside to hold the bounty of water, and the horse troughs overflowed.
“I will tell you something,” Rushing Cloud confided. “If the Tohono O’odham do not sing up the rain, the desert will always be dry.”
A new realization filled Miguel’s head. Rushing Cloud may have learned to speak like a white man, but that hadn’t changed his beliefs. His faith had shaken Miguel’s.
He had always believed Father Ignacio when the priest declared that Indians were heathens who knew nothing about God or civilized life. He realized now that Father Ignacio could be mistaken. It could be true that Rushing Cloud’s god brought the rains. The Desert People might teach the settlers many things, if only they would listen. Rushing Cloud had already taught Miguel more in a short time than he ever imagined was possible.
The slope of the mountain range grew lower, and Miguel sensed they were getting closer to Tucson. A chill crept into the night air, but he wasn’t cold, even without a shirt or shoes. Tonight he had walked several miles and he was still at Rushing Cloud’s side, neither tired nor thirsty. Light from the sky lit his path. I am more like the scorpion every day, he thought, finding my way through the dark.
In the distance, Miguel thought he saw fires glowing. Was it an illusion of stars dancing in the desert? As he walked ahead, he realized it was the flickering of campfires! His heart raced.
“Enemy soldiers,” Rushing Cloud announced, standing stock-still. The faint echo of laughter drifted across the still air.
“It’s the cavalry,” Miguel nearly shouted. He rushed forward, forgetting his tender foot. Rushing Cloud grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him back.
“You must wait until daylight, my friend. These warriors shoot their fire sticks at anything that rustles in the night.”
Miguel tried to pull away. “Don’t you understand? They’re searching for me,” he argued. “They wouldn’t shoot!”
“Look at you,” Rushing Cloud declared. “Your hair hangs down, and you wear a headband like Apachu. You have no shirt or boots, and your skin is dark from the sun and covered with red dust. How can you think of running into their camp? They will not know you.”
Miguel slumped down in the sand and pulled the strip of cloth from his head. He had waited so long to be rescued, and now he would have to wait even longer.
“Maybe they won’t believe me when I tell them who I am,” he said. “Maybe they’ll think I’m their enemy.”
“Come,” Rushing Cloud said in his soft voice. He moved toward the boulders to the west. “We will go closer, but we will stay in the shadow of the mountain. Tomorrow, when the sun shines upon you, call out to them and enter their camp in safety. I will follow and watch to make sure they take you home. After all, we still travel the same path.” He handed Miguel his shirt. “Wear this,” he said.
Miguel pulled the shirt over his head, struggling to ease it over the sling. Pain throbbed in his shoulder with the slightest touch.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “You probably saved my life again just now. I would have run into the camp and startled the sentries. Tomorrow we’ll go in together, and this time, I’ll be able to help you. I’ll tell the soldiers what you did for me. I won’t let them take you back to the mission school,
I promise. Maybe they’ll give you a horse so you can get back to your family quicker. Agreed?”
He poked his head through the opening in the shirt and tugged it into place. The fabric felt strange against his bare skin, and he almost wished to feel the air against his chest again. He looked up when his companion didn’t answer, but Rushing Cloud was gone.
Chapter 13
Grizzled Eggs and Rio Coffee
Miguel huddled against the rocks. He squinted into the inky night, hoping that Rushing Cloud would return as suddenly as he had disappeared. He longed to hear the comforting sound of his friend’s voice singing up the dawn. When at last the sun eased over the horizon in a halo of orange light, Miguel knew Rushing Cloud was not coming back.
The shadow of a lone buzzard glided across the sand, and Miguel looked up to watch the bird’s dark wings floating effortlessly. The ranch hands called the bird zopilote, and said it knew every inch of its territory. The desert was Rushing Cloud’s territory, and Miguel was certain that his friend would navigate his way home as silently as the bird’s shadow.
Miguel stood and stretched, his muscles stiff from sitting in the cold. His shoulder throbbed with pain, and his mouth was parched. He had gotten used to walking at night and now he needed sleep. But the only thing that mattered was getting home. He’d walk into the cavalry encampment and let them take him the rest of the way. His time in the desert was almost over.
As the sun rose higher, Miguel spotted a sentry posted on a stand of low rocks. The guard stood out clearly against the brightening sky. If I were an Apache, that soldier would be an easy target.
Taking a few steps forward, Miguel cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled a greeting. “Ho, there!” Although his injured foot prevented him from running, he moved closer at a steady pace and the distance between him and the guard shortened. The startled sentry raised his rifle in Miguel’s direction.
Miguel stopped. “Don’t shoot!” he called.
Without lowering his rifle, the guard shouted back across the open expanse. “Identify yourself!” His deep voice echoed off the rocks, and Miguel heard the faint repetition of the last word until it faded away. “Yourself . . . your . . . self . . .”
“I’m lost,” Miguel called. “I’m trying to get back to Tucson.”
Two more armed soldiers scrambled onto the rocks, crouching down on either side of the sentry. Now three rifles aimed at Miguel’s chest. Perhaps Rushing Cloud had been right to leave. How would the guards have reacted to two strangers approaching their camp?
“Approach slowly,” the guard ordered gruffly.
Miguel thought he should raise his hands over his head to show he was unarmed, but that wasn’t possible with his injured shoulder. He might look more dangerous with one arm in the air. He exaggerated his limp, dragging his leg more than necessary so that he wouldn’t appear threatening. Still, the soldiers didn’t lower their guns.
At close range, the men eyed him warily. They stood together, their tall crowned hats pinned up on the right side and a small white plume decorating the left. It seemed a strange and useless hat to wear while riding across the desert and even stranger during guard duty. The feathery plume alone would signal a soldier’s hiding place. One young soldier, whose burly neck seemed choked by his tight blue wool jacket, shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the desert as if there might be others hiding in wait.
“Identify yourself!” the sentry demanded again. Like his companions, his baggy blue trousers were tucked into tall leather boots folded over at the knees. Their square toes looked hard and sturdy. Miguel looked down at his dirty feet, covered with scratches and angry cuts. He couldn’t help thinking how his boots would have protected him from the scorpion’s sting.
Being stung had prevented Miguel from continuing on his own, but it had brought Rushing Cloud to help him. Miguel didn’t know if he had gained any special qualities from the scorpion, but walking the desert with Rushing Cloud at his side had given Miguel a chance to see everything around him in a different way. He had learned that the desert could provide food and water. He had seen how to survive. He had found time to think.
Miguel looked squarely at the guard. “My name is Miguel,” he said. “My father is Don Mateo Abrano. We have a horse ranch just outside Tucson.”
“Well, I’ll be hog-tied,” the sentry declared, finally dropping the rifle to his side. He turned to one of the other soldiers. “Go tell Captain we found the kid.” The messenger clambered down the rocks and rushed into the camp, his hat plume bobbing.
“We gave you up for dead, boy,” said one of the remaining soldiers. He put a strong arm around Miguel and supported him as they entered the cluster of tents and smoldering campfires. Groggy soldiers still in their long underwear stumbled from their low white tents to watch him pass.
The camp tents stretched in parallel rows, giving Miguel the feeling that he was walking down a narrow street. Wispy smoke wafted from the remains of last night’s cooking fires like snuffed beacons. In the center of the camp, horses were tethered to wooden stakes driven into the ground. Some of the animals lifted their heads and tossed their long manes. Miguel was sure they had been purchased from his family’s stock. Abrano horses were direct descendants of the mounts used by the Spanish conquistadors, and they seemed to carry themselves with a fierce pride, as if they knew their lineage.
Miguel had felt a sense of pride about his family’s heritage too. Now doubts had seeped into his mind. He had to admit that Aharon ben Avraham had shown tremendous courage in spite of all that had happened to him. He had tried to keep his faith, even when faced with death. He had overcome great tragedy to build a new life, passing on his beliefs at great risk.
If the scorpion can share his strengths through his sting, Miguel thought, couldn’t my ancestor’s story give me the courage see my own life in a new way?
The row of tents ended at a covered supply wagon that created a barricade. “Wait here,” ordered the soldier who had helped Miguel into camp. He entered a tent set up at the end of the line. It was far larger than the others, and a canopy extended from the front.
The tent wasn’t nearly as interesting as the food cooking nearby. A gray-haired soldier leaned over a black iron frying pan, and Miguel’s mouth watered at the smell of sizzling bacon. A barrel of water sat atop the wagon back, and a few drops dripped from a wooden spigot. Miguel was about to ask for a drink when the cook and the soldiers nearby suddenly snapped to attention and gave a stiff salute as a tall, barrel-chested man stepped out of the tent. Miguel thought the man’s shoulder patches identified him as an officer, but if not, his crisp uniform and ramrod posture certainly did.
“Come in, son,” he said, holding the tent flap open. “I’m Captain Riverton.” He stepped inside behind Miguel and addressed the guard. “Fetch the medic,” he ordered, and the soldier hurried away.
The tent was high enough for Miguel and the captain to stand comfortably. It was sparsely furnished with a wooden table and two low stools, a leather trunk, and a cot whose blankets were pulled taut. The captain pointed to one of the three-legged stools, and Miguel sat down, grateful to rest his foot.
“I don’t know how you arrived here,” the captain marveled. “We tracked you to a cottonwood stand, but then we lost your trail. Our scout guessed that you had been taken by Apache, and he knew their tricks. We picked up the trail again heading into the mountains and thought we’d catch up with you in a day or two, but then the trail went cold. We searched for two more days and, finally, gave you up for lost.” The captain smiled. “It’s been a full nine days now, and here you are! You’ve shown us all up for fools by finding us, instead of us finding you. You’re a pretty resourceful chap to escape from a band of Apaches and make your way across the desert alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Miguel blurted out. “You see, I—”
“Breakfast, sir,” the cook interrupted, setting two plates of steaming food on the worn tabletop. Miguel stared at the fried eggs, crisp
bacon, and pan biscuits heaped on each plate. He picked up the fork that was stabbed into the biscuit and felt his hand trembling. Everything felt strange and different, even holding a fork. The aroma of the food made Miguel realize how desperately hungry he was. The cook carefully set two mugs of steaming coffee beside the plates and left.
“Grizzled eggs and Rio coffee,” the captain declared. “Not much of a welcome home meal, but I reckon your mother will remedy that soon enough.” Miguel was so thirsty that he took a deep swallow of the coffee and shuddered at its bitterness. “There’s no room for luxuries like sugar on the trail,” the captain apologized in a voice loud enough for the soldiers outside to hear. Then, with a wink, he quietly retrieved a small metal canister from his trunk and poured a stream of coarse brown sugar into each of their cups. He buried the canister under a shirt in the trunk and closed the lid.
“So,” the captain said in a friendly manner, “I’m interested to hear that you had some help on the way back.” His smile seemed frozen. “Who were you with out there?”
Chapter 14
A Rebel Yell
Miguel chewed a mouthful of bacon, savoring the smoky taste. “Well, I was alone some of the time,” he said. “When I first got away, that is.” The captain looked puzzled. “The Apache brought me pretty far up into the Catalina Mountains,” Miguel explained, “and there was no chance to escape. Then one night there was a real ruckus and I made a run for it. I nearly got away, but a warrior hit me with a stick and I tumbled over the side of a bluff. That’s when I got this cut on my head, and my shoulder got hurt pretty bad. By the time I landed on the ground I was covered in cactus thorns. Even though I was so banged up, I knew I had to keep moving before the Apaches found me again. I tried to walk south and travel mostly at night so they wouldn’t see me. I slept during the day when it was hot.” His words tumbled out. “I didn’t have any food or water. Then I stepped on a scorpion in the dark and lanced my foot with my pocketknife to try to drain the poison.” He looked down. “I guess that was pretty dumb.”
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