Walk Till You Disappear

by Jacqueline Dembar Greene

  A small group of cavalrymen sat around a small fire while one soldier played a lively tune on a harmonica. They beckoned to him, and Miguel stood at the edge of the ragged circle. The men clapped and hummed along until the harmonica player took a break, wiping off the silver instrument with his neck scarf. Some of the men rolled cigarettes, and one offered Miguel a mug of coffee.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “My stomach isn’t sure what it wants to do with the beans and corn bread I just ate. If I add that Rio coffee, I’m afraid it’s going to decide it doesn’t want any of it!”

  The men chuckled. The harmonica player lifted the instrument back to his lips, and Miguel recognized the song. Some of the men started to sing the words to “Shenandoah.” The song was filled with longing, and Miguel felt more homesick than ever. He was so close to home, and yet it seemed so far off.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion at the far end of camp. A cavalryman rode in as a crowd of soldiers swarmed around. In the flickering firelight, Miguel saw that the rider was leading a bare-chested Indian. His hands were tied in front of him, and he was tethered to the saddle horn with a long rope. Miguel stretched to get a better look, and the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach came roiling back. Even from a distance, he knew that the prisoner was Rushing Cloud.

  Miguel tried to push through the crush of men. “Rushing Cloud!” he called, but his friend stared straight ahead. He was bruised and dirty, as if he’d been in a scuffle. The mounted soldier drew to a halt in front of the captain, who was seated on a stool outside his tent, puffing on a clay pipe.

  The soldier dismounted and stood at attention, giving the captain a crisp salute. “I knew you said there might be an Indian following the Abrano boy, sir, so I kept my eyes open. I found this one sneaking behind some bushes while I was patrolling the perimeter. I think he’s an Apache scout.”

  The captain rose from his chair. “Beef up the guard,” he said to his aide. “If he’s one of the warriors that had captured Don Mateo’s son, he won’t be alone.” The aide moved down the line, calling out certain men by name.

  Miguel pushed into the clearing in front of the tent. “He’s no Apache,” he blurted out. “He’s my friend, Rushing Cloud. Untie him!”

  The captain scowled. “I think the whiskey is still affecting your judgment, so I’m willing to excuse your interference this time. Don’t let it happen again.”

  “But Captain Riverton, this is the person who saved me out in the desert. I told you about him, remember? How can he be an Apache, when he’s wearing sandals instead of moccasins? Look at his hair—it’s short! He’s wearing pants like you and me! No Apache warrior would be traveling without a double quiver of arrows and a bow. And he speaks perfect English!” Miguel faced his friend. “Talk to him, Rushing Cloud.” Miguel’s plea was ignored. Rushing Cloud remained silent, staring straight ahead.

  “Set up the cage,” the captain ordered, “and see that his hands and feet are tied. I’ll deal with him in the morning.” There was a flurry of sharp salutes from the soldiers as Rushing Cloud was led roughly away.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Miguel shouted. He turned to the captain and felt all the strength leave his body. “He saved my life,” he said, his voice sounding like a whimper. “He’s my friend.”

  “Get some sleep, son,” Captain Riverton said sternly. “You’ve got a lot to learn about Indians.”

  Chapter 16

  A Vanishing Trail

  Miguel squatted in the sand behind the captain’s tent trying to hear the conversation inside. The soldiers had drifted back to their tents after the commotion over Rushing Cloud’s capture. The camp was quiet as the men turned in for the night.

  None of the voices filtering through the canvas walls sounded familiar, but Miguel could hear enough to know they were discussing Rushing Cloud. Why hadn’t the captain believed Miguel? After all, he knew who had captured him—not the soldiers. The longer the officers debated what to do with Rushing Cloud, the more Miguel worried.

  A deep, raspy voice spoke out forcefully. “We can’t risk taking that redskin into Tucson! If there’s a band of Apaches trying to rescue him, we’ll be attacked before we make it back. I say we shoot him now and leave his carcass for the buzzards.” Miguel was stricken with fear until he heard Captain Riverton’s commanding voice.

  “We don’t kill anyone unless they’ve gotten a fair trial and been proven guilty of a crime,” the captain declared.

  Someone else spoke up. “Why would the Abrano boy say the kid we captured was his friend if it weren’t true?”

  “I believe him, all right,” Captain Riverton said. “That’s why I told the watch that he might still be lurking around. I don’t care if he’s Apache or Papago. He can’t be trusted.”

  Miguel was ashamed of his loose tongue. How foolish he had been to think an officer in the US Cavalry would believe a story about a friendly native. If I had kept quiet, Rushing Cloud would never have been captured. It’s all my fault.

  The three men inside the tent continued to debate whether to keep Rushing Cloud prisoner or execute him.

  There was silence until the captain said, “I’ll sleep on it. I’ll see you both here at reveille and let you know what I’ve decided.” Miguel heard the rustling of stiff uniforms and boot steps against the ground. He huddled closer to the back of the tent, pushing farther into the darkness.

  Rushing Cloud’s fate would be decided before dawn. Either he would be taken into Tucson as a prisoner or he would be shot before the cavalry pulled up stakes.

  When he was sure the others had left, Miguel sneaked back to the cook wagon. No one had told him where to bed down for the night, but that meant no one was watching him. He was glad to be left alone. He needed time to think.

  He clambered clumsily into the back of the wagon, wincing as his shoulder banged against the water barrel. He settled on a sack of cornmeal, massaging the muscles that throbbed from his neck all the way to his back. The only sound was of faint snoring from a nearby tent.

  Miguel was tired too, but he couldn’t sleep yet—not before he figured out how to save his friend. Until now, it had been Rushing Cloud who had made the decisions, always knowing the best way to stay safe. Now Miguel had to find the right path on his own, and it was more than simply finding his way home.

  Slipping to the front of the wagon, he peered out across the driver’s seat. There was little moonlight from the crescent that hung in the sky, but Miguel was used to traveling at night. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The rows of white tents were easy to see, almost glowing under the brilliant stars.

  First, Miguel had to figure out where they were holding Rushing Cloud. Captain Riverton had mentioned a cage. It would have to be large enough to hold a man, but small enough to be carried on one of the supply wagons. Miguel scanned the area beyond the tents. The latrines had been dug on the right side of camp, far enough from the cook wagon and the officers’ tents, yet not so far that the men would be in danger when they used them. It wasn’t likely that Rushing Cloud had been placed there.

  To the left, Miguel barely made out shadowy giant saguaros reaching their branching arms toward the sky. Closer to the campsite he spotted a small red dot glowing and fading against the darkness. A cigarette! There must be a guard posted there. Miguel remembered the sentry he had approached yesterday morning, standing atop an outcropping of rock. Didn’t these soldiers understand how they made themselves open targets? If Miguel could pick them out in the dark, an enemy scout could easily pick them off.

  He cradled his bandaged arm tightly and eased himself from the wagon. His bare feet moved silently across the warm sand. Miguel stood as still as the saguaros, waiting to see if he had drawn anyone’s attention. If a soldier questioned him, he would simply say he was looking for the latrine. They wouldn’t think it suspicious that he was heading the wrong way in the dark.

  Keeping his head low, Miguel crept in the direction of the guard’s lit cigarette. It moved to the left, then to the right
, as if floating in the air. He’s pacing back and forth, but staying in the same path, he noted. That had to be where Rushing Cloud was imprisoned.

  Several wooden barrels were stacked at the edge of camp, and Miguel crouched behind them. Just ahead, he saw the low, square shape of a wooden cage. It seemed too short for a person to stand inside, and barely wide enough for a prisoner to stretch out his arms. Miguel stared at the makeshift prison for several minutes before he noticed the shadowy shape of his friend curled on the ground.

  Anger swelled in Miguel’s chest at such cruel treatment, just because Rushing Cloud was an Indian. He wanted to rush forward and free him, but he knew any sudden move would alert the sentry. Miguel had to be patient and think of the surest way to release his friend.

  He watched the guard’s measured steps until he was out of sight, then counted the seconds until the soldier retraced his steps . . . sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy. Miguel would have less than seventy seconds to get to the cage, cut an opening, and get away.

  Miguel didn’t see any other sentries, yet he was sure the captain would have placed extra men on watch. He sat motionless, scanning the area until he briefly glimpsed a light flare to his left. Almost immediately, the bright flame was extinguished, and Miguel saw the red glow of another cigarette pinpointing the location of another guard. How reckless these soldiers were! He followed the movement of the second sentry, marking the spot where their paths crossed.

  As the soldiers retreated, Miguel pulled the jackknife from his pocket and opened the sharp blade. He approached the cage stealthily. Not every guard would be careless enough to announce his position with a lit cigarette. But Miguel saw no one except Rushing Cloud, curled on his side, asleep.

  Although Miguel had moved silently, Rushing Cloud lifted his head as Miguel approached. They stared at each other through the wooden bars. Miguel began slicing through the thick cords that held the cage together when he heard a sentry returning. His boots thudded against the ground. Miguel flattened himself onto the sand, and Rushing Cloud curled up on his side, feigning sleep. Had he really been asleep when I got here, or only pretending so the guards wouldn’t watch him closely?

  Miguel had misjudged the timing of the soldiers’ return. His heart pounded so hard he was afraid it was sending a drumbeat echoing across the desert. With the knife in his hand, Miguel knew he could never explain his presence if the guard discovered him there. He slipped the knife under a stake that tethered the cage to the ground.

  Then he remembered the trick Rushing Cloud had taught him. He pulled the rattlesnake tail from his pocket. As the guard came closer, Miguel shook the rattles until they vibrated their threat. The sentry backed away.

  Just then, a soft whistle cut the silence and the retreating guard returned the signal with his own low whistle. “I’ve got it,” whispered a voice. Pale moonlight reflected off a silvery flask that the sentry held aloft. “He okay in there?”

  “Sleeping like a baby,” was the muffled reply, “in the company of a wide-awake rattler. The captain may not have to make any decisions by tomorrow. Let’s get out of here.” The two guards disappeared into the night.

  Miguel didn’t move for several seconds after the soldiers had left. He was uncertain where they would go. The area was flat, and only a few scrubby bushes dotted the area. When he was sure he heard and saw no signs of them, he retrieved his knife. With deft strokes, he cut out two wooden bars. Although Rushing Cloud’s hands were tied together, he gripped each bar in his fingers and soundlessly placed them across each other in the center of the cage, as if marking the spot where he had been. Then he slid through the small opening on his belly.

  Miguel cut the ropes that bound Rushing Cloud’s wrists. As they fell away, he handed his friend the knife. Rushing Cloud slit the ropes that tied his ankles together and offered Miguel the folded knife.

  “You keep the Snake Skinner,” Miguel said in a voice as soft as Rushing Cloud’s had been the first time he had spoken. As his friend tucked the pocketknife into his pants, Miguel pointed to Rushing Cloud’s feet and whispered, “Give.”

  Rushing Cloud patted Miguel’s back, understanding the joke and the message behind it. He removed his sandals and handed them to Miguel. Then he stood up, watching as Miguel tied the sandals onto his own feet, toes against heels.

  In a barely audible voice, Rushing Cloud said, “Never again will you be a boy who wanders the desert without seeing. Remember me, Brother Scorpion.” He laid one hand across his chest. “I am Rushing Cloud, son of Rain Stalker, son of I’itoi, creator of my people.”

  Miguel stood tall, his back ramrod straight. In a hushed, but strong voice, he said, “And remember me, my friend. I am Miguel, son of Mateo, son of Abraham, the father of my people.” Rushing Cloud turned and loped across the desert like an antelope.

  Miguel gathered the pieces of cut rope and used them to brush all tracks from around the cage. He hid the snake rattles deep in his pocket and then walked with heavy footsteps away from the empty prison. When he had traveled a good distance, he buried the sandals in a shallow hole and scattered stones and underbrush over it. He skirted the area, brushing his footprints from the sand behind him.

  Despite his exhaustion, Miguel lay awake in the cook wagon, trying to sort out his jumbled thoughts. He understood Jacob Franck’s hope that there would be more tolerance in Arizona, but Miguel realized how many differences remained. He had been just like so many in Tucson who thought that only their ways could be right.

  The image of the peddler reading from his ancestor’s diary flashed across his memory once again, but his thoughts had changed. Many things in his life now looked different. Getting back to his family would only be the start of a new journey.

  Before his family’s past was revealed, Miguel had only wanted to lead people to a belief in the church’s teachings. Now, he knew he could never tell people like Rushing Cloud and Señor Franck that their beliefs were wrong. Who could know what songs God listened to?

  He pictured Father Ignacio’s sad face. Miguel would have to try to explain why he no longer believed he should become a priest. Father Ignacio should be the first to understand that God had shown Miguel a different path.

  Chapter 17

  Homecoming

  Captain Riverton was enraged. “What do you mean the footprints lead toward the cage?” Two soldiers stood nervously at attention while he shouted at them. “The prisoner’s gone, so the prints have to lead away!”

  Miguel guessed that these must be the guards who had been assigned to watch Rushing Cloud. If they hadn’t spent the evening smoking and drinking so far from their prisoner, Miguel would never have been able to help his friend get away.

  “That boy was tied hand and foot and locked in,” the captain bellowed. “Someone must have set him free, so why isn’t there a trail to follow?”

  Captain Riverton paced angrily in front of his tent. Cookie busied himself with his breakfast tasks, keeping clear of the captain’s wrath. He adjusted the coffeepot as it burbled over the flames. Miguel added a few twigs to the fire and tried to blend in with the camp’s bustling activity, but the captain caught sight of him and stepped closer.

  “What do you know about all this?” he demanded.

  Miguel’s head jerked up in surprise. He pretended to be confused. “I just woke up, sir,” he said. “I only know what I just heard.” Miguel erased all expression from his face. “I might know something about the footprints, though.” The captain stared at him, and Miguel tried to look concerned but innocent. “When I was traveling with the Apaches, they never left a campsite without wiping out their prints. Maybe whoever freed the prisoner did the same thing, only he missed some.”

  The captain scratched the stubble of black and gray whiskers on his unshaven chin. He glared at Miguel with more than a hint of suspicion. Then he turned back to the two sentries.

  “This incompetence will not go unpunished,” he declared. “I’ll deal with you when we return to Fort Lowell.” He st
rode into his tent with a curt, “Dismissed!”

  Cookie melted a dollop of bacon grease into a frying pan. “I bet you know a sight more than you’re letting on, eh?”

  “Rushing Cloud didn’t need any help from me,” Miguel lied. “And what could I do with only one good arm?” He cautiously flattened the bulge of rattles in his pocket. “I’ll admit I’m glad he’s free, though. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “All them Indians give me the creeps,” Cookie said, breaking two eggs into the pan at once. The fat spattered and spit in all directions. “I just hope we’ve seen the last of that one.”

  Miguel was certain they had, and he couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of loss mixed with a large dose of satisfaction. He poked around the edges of the camp until it was time for the troop to move out. His shoulder pained him less today, and he realized the medic’s treatment must be working. He tried to help Cookie pack the wagon, but at the first movement, the throbbing pain returned. He let Cookie give him a hand getting onto the high wagon seat.

  “Giddyap!” the cook called, snapping the reins. With a creak of wheels, the wagon lurched forward. Miguel watched the cavalry formation snaking across the desert. Bright clusters of orange poppies and tufts of feathery purple blooms spread across the sand like a welcoming parade. Tucson lay just over the horizon. As the morning stretched into afternoon, Miguel dozed, lulled by the rocking of the wagon until the distant peal of bells roused him.

  Cookie was smiling. “You hear those bells? Somebody’s glad you’re back.”

  As the cavalry approached the outskirts of town, the ringing seemed to echo in his chest. At the well, the women set their ollas down and ran to welcome the troops. Their rebozos streamed behind them in a blur of colors. Miguel had been away so long, but now he was home.