40

Michael cinched his saddle and reached over to scratch behind Buddy’s ears. The horse turned his head and nuzzled Michael’s hand.

“Sorry, boy. No treats this morning. I’ll see if I can find something along the trail.” The horse shook his head, rattling the metal on his bridle.

Frank slid the bit into his horse’s mouth. “What day do you think it is?”

Michael paused, his mind blank. He didn’t know. The days blended together. He couldn’t remember how long they had been searching. “I dunno. I can’t tell them apart anymore.”

“Me neither.” Frank mounted and walked his horse to join Sheriff Davis and Jeremiah Turner. Michael saw Old Thomas out ahead, studying the ground.

Frank pulled up next to them. “Any idea what day it is, Sheriff?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Nope.”

Jeremiah Turner took a small book from the inside pocket of his vest. He flipped a few pages. “It is Monday, May 27.”

Frank gave a low whistle. “Almost three weeks we’ve been out here.”

The sheriff turned to him. “You can go back anytime.”

Frank shook his head and held up a hand. “Ain’t that, Sheriff. We need to find Sam. I was just curious is all.” He stood in his stirrups and looked around. “’Sides, I don’t think I could find my way back even if I wanted to.”

They rode off, Old Thomas in the lead. Michael reflected on the routine of the days: up at the crack of dawn, follow a trail that meandered all over the place but generally moved westward, stay in the saddle until it was too dark to see. Eat a cold supper. Sleep. Start all over again the next day.

The divided posse still followed three trails. Michael couldn’t remember how long it had been since they had seen either of the other groups.

Day after day, tension battled fatigue. The men drowsed in the saddle, snapping awake when they almost tumbled off their horses, looking around to see if anyone noticed. The novelty and humor of that wore off after a few days of the relentless ride. The weather was clear, warm in the morning and hot in the afternoon, the heat adding to their sluggishness. The few meandering streams were almost dried up.

On this day, Michael rode with Old Thomas. Sheriff Davis wanted one man riding with the tracker as a lookout. The sheriff, Jeremiah, and Frank remained about thirty yards back. They would not come closer unless beckoned by Old Thomas.

The sun’s rays reflected off the almost-white stones and light-colored sand. Michael’s eyes burned from squinting. Even with his hat brim lowered over his face, the light dazzled.

For the last hour, they had moved with deliberate caution over hard, rocky ground. Old Thomas spent much of the time off his horse, searching the ground for the slightest indication of the kidnappers. Now he squatted on his haunches, staring at a small indentation in the rock. He turned his head and scanned the landscape, then stood slowly, as if in pain. A loud pop sounded from one of his knees as he straightened. He rubbed the small of his back with both hands, lifted his canteen for a long drink, and splashed some water in his face.

“The spirits are not being kind to me today, young one.” He replaced his canteen and rested his head on his arms on his saddle. Then he straightened, the lines in his face like canyons gouged by a glacier now long gone. Fatigue showed in his eyes and in the droop of his shoulders.

Peering into the distance, he said, “Those we are following have strong spirits. Dark and evil spirits are hiding them from my eyes.”

Michael took off his hat, wiped his face with his sleeve, and replaced his hat. It was a breezeless day, and the silence was eerie. He watched an eagle drift on the air currents, wings spread, gliding. Old Thomas followed his gaze.

“Yes,” the Indian said. “It would be wonderful to see from where he is, to see the whole world laid out before us, to see those we seek plainly and without being seen by them.”

Michael studied the aged man, a man whose quiet strength he had come to respect. He admired the man’s strong spiritual presence, the belief in an almighty creator that was not too far from his own beliefs, except the Indian had not yet met Jesus as a personal Savior.

“Watching that eagle reminds me of something from the Word of God,” Michael said. “‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.’”

Old Thomas nodded gravely. “Unfortunately, time to wait is something we probably do not have—not if we are going to safely rescue Mr. Carstairs.”

Buddy shifted his weight unexpectedly, jostling Michael so that he grabbed the saddle horn. “It means more than just time. To me, it means being sensitive to Him, to hearing Him. It means blocking out distraction and focusing on what He has to say. There are times that can happen very quickly.”

“You draw a lot of strength from your God and from His writings. I can see this God of yours has changed you from a bad man to a good one. You are strong, Michael Archer. And you will grow stronger as you keep on the path your God has set before you. Stay true to your God and pray He helps us find these people who have taken Mr. Carstairs.”

“It’s been my constant prayer.”

Old Thomas mounted his horse and, with a heavy sigh, settled into his saddle. He gathered the reins and set his paint to a slow walk. He pointed to a large rock that rose out of the ground like a huge mushroom cap about one hundred yards to the north.

“I want to see if we can climb that and get closer to the view of the eagle.” He said it with a wry chuckle in his voice. He examined the ground while they approached the boulder. The stone rose perhaps fifty feet at the most and was about two hundred feet long, rounded at both ends. A web of cracks and fissures worn by rain and wind covered the side.

Old Thomas perused the face of the rock for several minutes, scanning the patterns of the cracks, searching for a path to the top. Speaking softly to himself in Creek, he reached into his saddlebags and took out a pair of moccasins. He shucked his boots with a soft thud onto the ground, slipped the moccasins onto his feet, and securely wrapped the leather thongs around his legs. When he was done, he swung his leg over the saddle and slid gently to the ground.

Approaching the rock face, he spoke to Michael. “Bring the looking glass, young one. I think your eyes will be better at distance than mine.”

Michael pulled the spyglass from his bag and dismounted, then followed Old Thomas over to the huge rock. The Indian tested a couple of cracks with his hands and toes, then started to climb, his fingers and feet finding openings just large enough to get a grip.

“Come, my young friend. Follow me.”

Michael began following the same route and soon learned why the Indian had changed his footwear. His boots had difficulty getting purchase in the cracks. Several times he slipped and hung on by his fingertips until he regained balance and control. After fifteen minutes of climbing, he reached the top, sweating profusely, fingers raw and knees bruised.

Old Thomas lay flat on the rock, facing west, and motioned for Michael to do the same. He raised himself up on his elbows and used his hands to shade his eyes. Before them the land stretched toward the mountains, the shades of gray and tan and brown around them turning green in the far distance near the mountain streams. Behind them, to the east, the land looked deceptively flat as it merged into the great plains. To the south lay the way to Riverbend and the valley that nurtured and protected and gave prosperity to the community. But all Michael could see where they lay was emptiness—no sign of human or animal life anywhere.

He handed the spyglass to Old Thomas. The old man slowly scanned the area in an arc from north to west to south, stopping occasionally if something caught his interest. He repeated the process from south to north and then focused the glass on an area toward the southwest. He handed the instrument to Michael, pointing to that area.

“Tell me what you see in that direction.”

Michael held the piece to his eye and adjusted the focus. He pointed the spyglass in the direction Thomas had indicated and did a slow scan to either side of it. He paused to wipe away some sweat and lifted the glass again, praying silently for guidance and clear vision. He concentrated on a line of trees several miles distant. There was something there, dots drifting in the sky.

He rubbed his eyes again and peered one more time. He lowered the glass and handed it to Old Thomas. “There’s something over there.”

“Buzzards.” The Indian continued to scan further to the left. He glanced at the sun and then back to where the buzzards circled lazily.

“Come. We must go back to Sheriff Davis.”

They made their way to the side of the rock, staying low and close to the surface. Old Thomas easily maneuvered down the side. Michael once again lost his footing and fell the last five feet, landing with a decided thump on his rear.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” He stood, slapped the dust off his pants, and mounted Buddy.

Old Thomas waved his hat to signal the others. Michael settled in his saddle as the others approached.

“What have you got?” Excitement and anxiety tinged the sheriff’s voice.

Old Thomas’s voice was level and calm as he pointed past the rock. “We saw buzzards circling about five or six miles away.”

He squatted and drew a crude map in the dirt with his finger. “We cannot ride straight there. It is all open ground, and if there are people there, we will be seen. There is an arroyo a short distance from us that we can follow. It will take us to a creek, and we can ride through the water and trees without being seen.”

Frank held up his hand. “Wait a minute, Sheriff. Won’t that take us off the trail? How do we know they even went that way?”

The Indian’s voice was calm. “This ground is very hard. The trail, if there is one, is slow and difficult to follow. The creek is the first good water we’ve seen in several days. They will want water as much as we do. They either went straight ahead or followed the path I suggest. Either way, that’s where we will find the trail.”

Frank shook his head. “I dunno. Seems we’re puttin’ a lot of faith in one old Injun.”

The sheriff’s voice was sharp, like a whip snapping. “Let it go, Frank.” He paused. “Anything else?”

The cowboy shook his head.

The sheriff nodded, combing his thinning hair with his fingers. He resettled his hat with the brim lowered over his eyes, then climbed back on his horse. “All right, let’s ride. Lead on, friend Thomas.”